Mr Monk and the Unpopular Banker
by Bob Wright
Summary: When a well-known financier drops dead on Monk's doorstep, he discovers that just about everyone wanted to kill him. Including someone he knows very well. NOW COMPLETED.
1. Death Stalks Mr Monk's Doorstep

MR. MONK AND THE UNPOPULAR BANKER

BY

BOB WRIGHT

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Several of the bits you'll read in this first chapter were first brought up in my previous story, Mr. Monk Goes to Disneyland. It may help to read that one first to get a little idea of why some things are the way they are in this story.

Adrian Monk and all related characters and indicia are registered trademarks of USA Network, Mandeville Films, and Touchstone Television. And now, as always, sit back and enjoy the story.

* * *

The chilly March twilight was settling down over San Francisco for yet another evening. People bustling around on the streets were bundled up as well as they could be against the cold and the brutal wind that had been blowing of the Bay all day.

Adrian Monk was not one of these people. He was at the very moment putting the finishing touches on his daily cleaning of the bathroom in his apartment—and just in time, too, for a quick glance at his watch told him that his favorite new show was about to go on again in five minutes.

He did a few more quick scrubs with the mop he was holding along the length of his tub—along the clearly delineated laser light lines he'd set up for the job—then disconnected the rag with a set of tweezers from his pocket and carried it to the garbage can and dropped it in. He then stepped over to the already immaculately clean sink and washed his hands off with 100 anti-bacterial soap. All he had to do now was toss the paper towel he'd dried his hands with into the trash as well and give the sink one more scrubbing just to be sure, and he'd be done.

Adrian gave the bathroom one final checking over, and rushed into the den like a child. Nothing could make him miss Crimestoppers U.S.A., the new ABC show that was sworn—especially by Executive Producer Tim Kight, whom Adrian had finalized several things he'd wanted to have on the show with during several calls to his new larger office at Disneyland—to bring in the worst offenders out there and ask for help on crimes that remained unsolved. Adrian had found that watching the show was a rare great boon in his life; of the thirty-eight cases that had been profiled on the show so far, the detective had been able to solve nine from the comfort of his living room. His assistant Natalie had repeatedly asked him to come watch the show with her and her daughter, but Adrian had flatly refused these offers; for reasons he knew Natalie could never understand, he felt more comfortable watching the show alone.

He flicked on the TV and turned it to Channel 7. The KGO logo popped up on the screen for a few seconds, followed by the thunderous opening strains of the Crimestoppers U.S.A. theme. Adrian flopped down in the sofa, laying his head in the exact location where Trudy had requested him to so many times before. He was eager to get this week's show over with, since Kight had called him in the middle of the week to tell him that it looked liked they would be profiling Trudy's murder on next week's show. Adrian was wondering when the producer's own tragic story might make the air, as Kight's son had been tragically killed in a hit and run several years ago, and the killer remained at large even now. The detective had requested and received a copy of Joshua Kight's case file from the Los Angeles police department, but hadn't yet been able to make any breakthroughs with it despite having read over it from front to back three times already. Still, he wasn't going to give up on it; his own experience with Trudy's case made him sympathize with what Kight and his wife were going through, and he felt he owed it to them to give them their own closure.

He shifted around slightly on the sofa as the opening credits continued rolling. Earlier in the week, Kight had called him with even better news: although the David Ruskin incident had panicked the Walt Disney Company enough to cancel the movie script on Adrian that Benjy had written, which the detective had pitched to them on a recent trip to Disneyland, Kight had stepped forward and set in place a compromise whereby Adrian's life story would be told once a week on cable. Already, the detective had heard on the phone from an almost too-cheerful Sharona that her son was writing out treatments for the first five episodes of the would-be series, most of which he'd witnessed firsthand as Adrian had slowly started coming out of his isolation following Trudy's murder. Moreover, the boy now had enough material filed away from the e-mails he'd been receiving from Julie every week on Adrian's further cases to more or less ensure that as long as the brass had confidence in it, the coming show could run for at least six seasons or more. And the best part of this was that, in agreement with the deal they'd forged with Adrian on the material, Disney would just step back and let Benjy and the rest of the show's burgeoning creative team go about their business writing it. With his "adventures" thus in trustworthy hands, Adrian could see no way his life story could be messed up at the moment. He just wished Trudy could have still been around to see all of this unfold.

It was with a rare contented sigh as he glanced up at the screen as the very familiar host walked into the courtroom set. "Hello America, I'm Dwight Ellison, and welcome to another edition of Crimestoppers U.S.A." the detective's father-in-law told the viewing public, "Tonight, we'll bring you several tales of sadness and despair that only you can clear up, starting with this heartbreaking case of a young bride whose life fell short of the altar."

Adrian jerked upright and laid his hand by the phone on the counter. It was time to go to work. A picture of an attractive young woman filled the screen. "Carol Squires was the quintessential college graduate," Ellison started narrating, "a hard working young woman who'd fallen deeply in love with…"

Adrian didn't need to hear any more. He reached for the phone and dialed the by now familiar Crimestoppers hotline. "Crimestoppers U.S.A., how can we help you?" asked the operator on the other end.

"Hi, it's me again," Adrian greeted her.

"You again?" the operator said with a mixture of surprise and resignation in her voice, "Tell me sir, what have you got for us this week?"

"It was her husband's ex-girlfriend," Adrian informed her, "She was jealous and wanted him back, so she lured her to the park and crushed her skull with the metal pipe they found at the scene. If you look…."

Suddenly there came the sound of the detective's doorbell ringing—over and over again. Adrian frowned. He wasn't expecting anyone; Natalie was taking Julie to the movies, and his boss was out with his new girlfriend this evening. "Just, just a minute," he told the Crimestoppers operator. He strolled over to the door and opened it…

...and jumped back in shock and horror as a heavily bleeding, well-dressed man stumbled into his apartment, clutching his chest in agony. "Monk!" he gasped weakly, clearly on the verge of death, "Help…. please!"

"You're dripping on the floor, you're dripping on the floor!" Adrian shrieked hysterically, pointing at his now blood-soiled carpet, "Couldn't you die in the hall?"

"Help...!" the man slumped forward on his knees, wheezing terribly. "Stay, stay right there, I'm on it!" Adrian reassured him. He ran into the kitchen, threw open the door under the sink, took hold of one of the sheets of industrial plastic he kept in case of an emergency, and slowly tore off a piece, taking care that the edges were torn off perfectly straight. Once he had a big enough piece, he ran back into the living room and laid the sheet on the floor. Here, here, lay down on this!" he told the dying man, gesturing him forward. The man stumbled forward and fell face first on the floor only partially on the plastic sheet. Adrian frantically rolled him all the way on with his foot, and then ran back into the kitchen to get his carpet cleaning paraphernalia. "All right, who are you, want do you want from me!?" he asked as he started tossing cleaner on the splotches of blood now littering the rug.

"Monk," the man waved him close, "The…the…the…!"

And with that he slumped to the floor, quite dead. Adrian wondered what the point of bothering to give him a deathbed confession was if his guest was going to be unable to say anything useful, but that was now beside the point. The detective grabbed his phone in a rush. "Go get Carol Squires's husband's ex-girlfriend; she did it," he reminded the Crimestoppers operator before beating the cradle to disconnect the call and dialing Natalie's cell phone number. He got no answer for about a minute before realizing that Natalie probably had the cell phone turned off in the theater. He hung up and dialed his boss's cell instead. "CAAAAAPPPPTTTAAAAAAAAAIIINN!" he shrieked loud enough to be heard all the way across San Francisco County...


	2. Mr Monk and the Shady Financier

It was a half hour later when Lieutenant Randall Disher came strolling through the apartment door to find it swarming with police. "Monk?" he called to the detective, who was still throwing cleaner on the carpet, "The captain's on his way; he had me call the theater Natalie's at. You OK?"

"Oh fine, wonderful, never better. Here," Adrian handed him a second can of cleaner, "You start at that end, and I'll meet you in the middle."

Disher glanced slowly down at the carpet, which was now so completely covered with mounds of white cleaning powder that it now looked as if it had snowed inside the apartment. The lieutenant's gave fell on the still uncovered corpse. "Oh boy," he grimaced, "Not Arthur Schmidt."

"I guess so," Adrian said, evening out several mounds of cleaner with his foot, "Who is he by the way?"

"Haven't you ever done business with Schmidt and Hallett Financial House?" Disher asked him, "Everyone else in the city has. He took over every other small banking business in town over the last ten years. Anyone would have wanted to kill him."

There was a rush of footsteps as a worried Natalie came tearing into the apartment. "Mr. Monk, what happened?" she asked him breathlessly.

"Oh, nothing major except for the dead body befouling my rug, but that's hardly worth mentioning," Adrian told her, dumping more cleaner into the corners of the apartment where no blood had been spilled, "Don't let Julie see the body."

"I dropped her off at a friend's before I got here," Natalie reassured him, "I'm just a strong about not letting her see dead bodies as you are. Do you need any help?"

"Of course I am," the detective said, "We're going to have to tear the whole building down because of this; that's going to take a while."

Before Natalie could respond to this, the familiar figure of Captain Leland Stottlemeyer appeared in the doorframe, this time with the lovely Linda Fusco on his arm. "Well, welcome to the heart of Monkworld," he told his date as if he were a tour guide, "Abandon all hope ye who enter. What've you got, Monk?"

"He's got Arthur Schmidt dead as a doornail on his rug," Linda strode forward toward the corpse, not looking upset at the dead man's fate at all. To the surprise of all, she rolled Schmidt's head upward with her foot and flashed an obscene gesture in his face, apparently not caring that there was no way he could see it being dead. "What was that for?" Disher asked her.

"For the time he lied to me about giving me a loan on my first house and used the money instead to buy out the bank my best friend's husband started, the son of a…!" the ending of Linda's sentence was abruptly muted out as a loud blast of heavy metal music from the floor above them. Adrian winced from it. "Could you keep it down up there, we're in the middle of an investigation down here!" he shouted out at the roof. "The Bentsens, Kevin's college cousins; he's renting out his apartment to them while he takes his mother to Veracruz this week," he explained to everyone in the room, "They've driven me crazy all week!"

The music stopped as quickly as it had begun. "So anyway, back on planet Earth," Stottlemeyer stepped forward and examined Schmidt's body, "What do you have on him so far, Monk? Did he tell you anything that could help before he went?"

"He did, but he didn't," Adrian explained. Before the captain could say anything about how contradictory this was, he squatted over the body, which had four large wounds on the chest and a gunshot to the neck. "He was stabbed first," he remarked, "You can tell because there's more clotting with the blood now than with the gunshot wound. But that's very interesting."

"What is?" Stottlemeyer inquired, checking over the visible blood stains on Schidt's neck and chest just to confirm his main man's observations.

These stab holes are all perfectly lined up," Adrian pointed to them. Indeed the wounds formed a perfect square on the right side of Schmidt's chest. "Plus, they all go straight in, like he was stabbed head-on. If it were a knife, they would be at an angle depending on how the murderer would be holding the knife. Why are they like that?"

"It might have been a vampire attack," Disher abruptly blurted out. Everyone around turned very slowly to look at him. "Well, it is after dark," the lieutenant said quickly, "You never know who you'll find in back alleys."

"Don't you think a vampire would go for the neck rather than the chest?" Natalie pointed out to him.

"Well, he could have tripped as he started to attack him, and the fangs could have gone into the chest while…" Disher theorized.

"Stop, all right, just stop!" Stottlemeyer held up his hand, "It was not a vampire that killed Arthur Schmidt, Randy, so put that whole thought out of your mind!"

"Well if his corpse rises back up and tries to suck our blood we'd…" Disher started to say, but a growl from his superior convinced him to revise his statement to, "I'd better call Schmidt's wife and tell her we've got her husband's body here."

He strode toward the hall. "It wasn't a bite that got him either," Adrian explained to everyone still left, "These stab wounds go in too deep to be caused by fangs. Something else was run into his chest, something long and sharp."

"Well, that narrows it down to just about every…" Stottlemeyer started to say, but then noticed Disher walking back into the apartment not more than ten seconds after he'd left. "Lieutenant, did I not ask you to call Mrs. Schmidt?" he had to ask.

"I did sir," Disher told him, "I got her on the line and told her that her husband was dead, and she said 'Good' and hung up on me."

"Who could blame her?" Linda remarked, glaring down at Schmidt's body, "It's no secret that he was seeing other women for the last five years. One of my clients divorced his wife because she gave into advances by this son of a…"

Another blast of loud music suddenly exploded from Kevin's apartment above, once again covering up her final epitaph. Even Stottlemeyer was wincing from this latest acoustic intrusion on the investigation. "All right then, Lieutenant, go up and tell them they need to be quiet up there," he instructed Disher, "Then go up the street and see if anyone else saw Schmidt coming here."

Disher nodded and sauntered off. It was about two minutes later when the music ground to a halt again. "So anyway," the captain continued once it was all quiet again, "If the wife hated him that much, I think we've got ourselves our first suspect. In the meantime, we can analyze the bloodstains to see if that can help us with anything."

"We can't. There are no more bloodstains, Captain," one of the officers pointed to the overly clean floor. The blood had been completely cleaned off. Stottlemeyer turned slowly toward Adrian and put his hands on his hips. "Nothing anyone else would have done," Adrian tried to rationalize, "You can have the rug anyway, though; no way I'm ever using it again. Just wrap it in plastic first; I can give you some. "

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It took about a half hour for the other police in the room to fully wrap up the rug in enough plastic to satisfy Adrian—using up two and a half rolls of the plastic he'd had stored under the sink (fortunately he'd stocked up on enough backup rolls). Every one of them had to strain together to carry it out into the hallway Disher returned just as this was being done. "Captain, we found Schmidt's car crashed in the alley two blocks up," he told Stottlemeyer, "Witnesses saw him swerving all over the place before he hit the wall."

"Tell me you've got some blood we can use?" the captain had to know.

"Yes," Disher nodded, "It was all over the front seat. You want to know what else we found?"

He paused for a long time. "Yes, of course I do, please spit it out!" Stottlemeyer reprimanded him.

"There was an old rifle of some kind on the floor, looked like it was from the 1800s or something" Disher explained, "We're not sure what it was doing there, but it definitely looked out of place."

"Well, we'll have to go get a good look at it, right Monk?" Stottlemeyer asked the detective, only to find him spraying even more cleaner on the now bare floor on parts that had been directly underneath the bloodstained part of the rug. The captain rolled his eyes and strolled over to the window, where Linda was surveying the cruisers parked below. "Again, I'm sorry we had to cut dinner short for this," he told her with genuine sympathy.

"It's no problem," she said, clearly having no problem with events having played out the way they had, "The day was slow anyway. Maybe we could finish tomorrow at lunch."

"Can't," Stottlemeyer shook his head, a very disappointed look on his face, "I forgot to tell you earlier, they want me back in court tomorrow morning. I have no clue what they want now; I thought we settled everything already with..."

He growled again, a pained expression on his face. "I know, these things just keep going on and on just when you think they're over with," Linda nodded in agreement, "My ex's lawyer, that son of a…"

The music from upstairs exploded on again without warning, muting out anything else she had to say. Adrian winced and dropped to the floor with his hands over his ears. "Mr. Monk, why don't we step out for a minute?" Natalie took his wrist and gently led him outside and down the stairs to the street, where he slowly stopped hyperventilating. "I swear, we need to get them one of these days," the detective complained, glancing up at what was normally Kevin's window, "What they do is so un-American."

"Well, anyway, are you going to be all right by yourself tonight, Mr. Monk?" she asked him.

"Absolutely not," he shook his firmly, "I told you earlier, we're going to have to tear down the whole building, burn the rubble and rebuild from scratch."

"Just because Arthur Schmidt got a little blood on your rug?" Natalie shook her own head.

"Hey, if everyone else in the building pitches in, we could have it back up to normal in six months, easy," the detective pointed out, "In the meantime, I'll need you to clear out everything from your spare bedroom, since I'm going to…"

"Mr. Monk, you are not moving in with me again!" she told him firmly, "Once was enough for that!"

"Well I can't stay here!" he cried, "How would you feel if someone barged in on you and…sorry, don't answer that," he raised a sheepish hand after realizing that it was something similar to this that had brought Natalie into his employment in the first place.

"Mr. Monk, you have to realize this isn't going to kill you," she told him firmly, "And you can clean up whatever's left in there; I have faith that you can make that room spotless."

"You're right," Adrian nodded, "In fact, I should really go back in and finish now, or it'll take all week."

He went back into the building, still wincing form the continuing loud music. Natalie shook her head as she watched him go. "Well, at least he'll have it all over and done with by morning so we can move on with this case," she told herself out loud, "I hope."


	3. Mr Monk and the Unclean Crime Scene

"What are we doing here?" Adrian asked Natalie tentatively the next morning as they pulled up in front of what had a mere twenty-four hours ago been Arthur Schmidt's residence. The entire mansion was swathed in construction scaffolds, and workmen's equipment littered the yard.

"We promised the captain we would check out Schmidt's wife to see if she might have done it, remember?" Natalie pointed out to him, gently tugging him out of the car, "Now what is there to worry about here, seriously?"

"Need you even ask?" Adrian gestured around at the mansion, "This whole place is uneven and chaotic; it's sort of like Hell on earth. Couldn't we just invite her nicely down to the station and ask her the questions there?"

Before his assistant could answer, he weaved his way through the maze of equipment on the lawn until he was directly underneath one of the scaffolds. "You guys," he called up to the construction workers drilling away at the mansion's latticework, "You missed a spot over there."

The foreman shut off his drill. "What?" he called down to the detective.

"On the corner of the roof, there, one of the columns you drilled in the avenging angel frieze is a quarter inch thicker than the others," Adrian pointed toward the exact spot, "Could you drop what you're doing now and go fix it?"

"Listen bud, we're on a tight schedule as it is!" the foreman yelled down, "If we do finish what we're doing now, we won't get paid by Mrs. Schmidt in full. What's s o bad about one column being thicker than the others?"

"Well think what Mrs. Schmidt's guests are going to say when they walk in and see that mistake in the frieze," Adrian yelled back, "They're all going to blame you for shoddy workmanship, I can tell you right now. You'll never get a moment's…"

"Are you with the police?" came a new voice. A middle-aged but still somewhat unattractive woman was staring at him strangely on the porch, apparently having listened in on his conversation.

"I'm Adrian Monk, are you Marilyn Schmidt?" he asked her.

"I'm now Marilyn Thomason again, and not a moment too soon," she said with great relish at being single again in her voice. She reached over the railing and shook Adrian's hand. "Won't you come inside so I can get this all over and with and move on with my life," she inquired as he waved for Natalie to give him a wipe.

"Uh, here's the thing, I can see you kind of busy inside," Adrian had noticed the inside of the mansion was rather torn up as well. "Why don't we step into Natalie's car there and discuss…."

"Of course we'll come on in," Natalie took his sleeve and led him toward the front door. "Not without my hand vacuum!" he protested, "We've got to go back to my place first and get it; just look at all the dust in here!"

Indeed the den was covered with heavy amounts of dust from the construction. Natalie paid no attention to him. "Mrs. Schmidt, we'd like…" she began.

"I said call me Thomason now," Schmidt's widow reprimanded her, "I refuse to be connected any further with Arthur now that he's gone."

"So I take it the two of you weren't on the best of terms before he was killed then?" Adrian strode over to a coffee table covered in shrink-wrap plastic and began fiddling absentmindedly with the plastic's edges.

"Would you want to show respect for a man who ignores you for hours on end, sleeps around with every two-bit prostitute out there, steals from your own savings account, forges your name on his checks, and overrules your every decision?" Marilyn snorted, "I was finally going to drag him into divorce court next week, but thankfully whoever killed him saved me time and money."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Natalie inquired.

"We had just sat down for our first dinner together in almost two weeks last night, it had to have been not long after five," Marilyn informed her, "We're seated two minutes and the phone rings. Arthur immediately dropped everything to pick up and ran out the door without a word. And after he'd sworn he was going to forget work this once…"

"Excuse me, where's your broom closet?" Adrian inquired, staring almost psychotically at several large lumps of dust in the corners, "This really needs to be swept up S.P.C.A."

The women stared in him in amazement. "Did you hear anything unusual when Arthur received that call?" Natalie continued the questioning.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," the dead man's ex told her, "Just his usual business nonsense, which I don't pay attention to anyway. I did hear him mention some name I never heard before, though, and I thought I knew everyone he made his crooked dealings with."

"Was his name by any chance Harold Krenshaw?" Adrian asked, flicking at a stray piece of wallpaper that was coming loose on the far wall.

"Mr. Monk, please!" Natalie scolded him, presumably both for messing with the paper and for inserting Harold into the conversation.

"No it wasn't Harold Krenshaw he mentioned, whoever he is," Marilyn informed him, "I just heard the basic syllables; not enough to match a proper name."

"I see," the detective was now sweating profusely from all the dust and the general haphazardness of the room, "I need to know, Mrs. Schm—Thomason, were you then here for the rest of the night afterwards?"

"Yes I was," she told him, "I waited all night for him to come back—I don't know why I didn't just walk out of here the moment he did. It wasn't until that Lieutenant Disher called me that I knew he'd gone too far for once."

"So you're saying he was definitely alive and well when he left here?" Adrian trudged over to the chimney and stared intently up it.

"If you're insinuating that I might have killed him, you've got another thing coming, Mr. Monk," Marilyn told him defensively, "I loathed Arthur for treating me like dirt, but the last thing I would have done is plunged a knife into his chest. If anyone would have killed it him, I think it would have been John."

"John?" Natalie asked.

"Our son," the widow said, "He hasn't even bothered coming around since Arthur started interfering in his online trading business. In fact the last time they were together they got into a huge fight and John screamed he would do something terrible if Arthur didn't back away and leave him alone. But if he did do it, please don't go hard on him; whoever killed Arthur did this town a great benefit. Now do have any more questions?"

"Yes, I do," Adrian raised his hand, "When was the last time you had this chimney cleaned out? There's soot buildup everywhere in here."

"Any more RELEVANT questions?" irritation was growing in Marilyn's voice.

"Yes, me again, if you don't mind I could come over and clean it out myself," Adrian informed her, "I've got enough cleaning poles to handle it. In fact I could make this house more…"

"Thank you for your help, Mrs. Thomason," Natalie once again seized her employer's hand and dragged him away from the chimney, "We'll let you know what we get on this."

* * *

"Mr. Monk, let the Schmidt's house go," she was pleading with him a half hour later back at the precinct. Adrian was seated at Stottlemeyer's desk—vacant at the moment given that the captain was currently in court—writing a down a short list of cleaning utensils on a notepad under the heading SCHMIDT EMERGENCY GEAR. 

"How can I?" he protested, "You saw the inside of that place too; it's on the borderline of beyond help. It's up to me to fix that mess, get rid of the dust and soot, and make that house safe for everything again."

"Don't you trust the workers?" Natalie had to know, "I sure they're professionals who know how to clean up when they're done remodeling?"

"You saw as much as I did that they made the one column in the frieze thicker; how can you call them professionals when they make a mistake like that?" Adrian stated adamantly. Natalie rolled her eyes. "So, did you find anything out while we were there?" she asked him as he underlined his list and put the pen he'd written it with down.

"In a nutshell more or less nothing; the dust had me too wound up," he admitted, prompting more eye rolling on her part, "But she's telling the truth that he was alive and in good shape when he left the mansion."

"And how do we know that?" Natalie asked him, but before Adrian could answer, Disher came running into the office. "Monk, um, I think we need to talk in private," he told him, a very worried look on his face, "Could you step into a closet with…" he trailed off as he realized that a closet probably wasn't the best of ideas when it came to telling secrets to Adrian Monk. "On second thought," he added, "Maybe we should go into the bathroom and…no, that won't…why don't we go up on the roof for…no, that's not…how about we go for a drive?"

"Uh, sure," the detective nodded. Disher led them downstairs and out the front door to the precinct's parking garage. Once they were all inside, he pulled out into traffic at an unusually high rate of speed and swerved with equally unusual high speed between lanes. "Careful, watch that motorcycle!" Natalie pointed at it directly ahead of them in time for Disher to swerve to its left, "So what's so important that has you all riled up like this?"

Disher turned off the radio and turned the car's heater on full blast, even though it wasn't that cold outside. "OK," he said slowly, "I've got good news and bad news. Which do you think you want to hear first?"

"Um, better get the bad news out of the way first," Adrian told him. Just as the lieutenant was about to speak, though, he blurted out, "No, wait, give me the good news first; it would too depressing with the bad. No, bad first. No, the good. No, the bad. No, the…."

"Um," Disher cut him off, "the good news is I got the results back from the fingerprint scan the captain ordered on the rifle they found in Schmidt's car. We've got a positive match."

"What could be bad about that?" Natalie inquired.

Disher glanced around the car as if some hidden spy was still listening in despite the roar of the heater. He took several nervous breaths. "They were Karen's prints," he said quickly.

"What?" Adrian's jaw dropped in complete shock, "You mean….?"

"Yeah," Disher nodded slowly, "It's definitely hers; they confirmed it. No one else's prints were on the rifle except Schmidt's, and his were only on it indirectly. Hers were all over it."

An uneasy silence permeated the car. Adrian gulped audibly, knowing that the case had suddenly veered into tedious territory. "Well," he said slowly, "I guess there's only one thing we can do right now."


	4. The Most Uncomfortable Suspect

"Now this is what I call a trendy place," Disher remarked as they climbed out of his car and stared at the upscale yellow Columbus Avenue house that they knew Karen now called home—Stottlemeyer had often groused about how he could only guess she could afford her new place on a single person's salary. "I wish I could find…Monk?"

The detective was squatting on the front lawn, clipping away at individual grass stems in the yard. "These blades, they're not even," he remarked out loud, "I don't know who she hires to cut this lawn nowadays, but she should not pay him extra, that's for sure."

"Well then why don't we let them do their job, especially since…" Natalie started to tell him, but she trailed off as a familiar car came cruising up and slid into a parking space near them. Moments later the door opened and Karen slid out. "I got your call," she told Disher, a strong tinge of frustrated resignation in her voice, "Is this really important?"

"Uh, yeah, Karen, it kind of is," Disher told her, "We need to talk to you about a criminal investigation we're in right now."

"Are you alone?" her eyes glanced suspiciously up and down the street, as if expecting her ex-husband to pop out of nowhere at a moment's notice.

"Yes we are," Disher admitted, "In fact he doesn't even know we're here right now."

"Then come on in," she waved them toward the front door. "Leave it," she told Adrian very firmly upon noticing he was still clipping the grass.

"Well I just think you'd like them to be even and…" Adrian stopped when she gave him a look that would burn up steel and pocketed his clippers. He followed everyone inside, into a well-decorated den that just screamed of liberation, he felt. "I'm guessing this probably has something to do with Arthur Schmidt's death," Karen spoke up before anyone else could, "I saw it on the TV this morning before I went to the set."

"Actually, yes," Disher said, "And congratulations on landing your first big directing role, if I may say so."

"I don't approve of flattery like you're giving, but thank you," she informed him, "It is an honor than someone's finally giving me a chance at a major motion picture after all those years of documentaries. And personally I find oppressed miners standing up to federal troops during the Gold…Monk!" she snapped abruptly at the detective as he leafed through a copy of her script on the coffee table and reached for a pair of nearby scissors, "That is my master copy! Nothing can happen to it."

"Well these pages are a little too thick in spots, see?" Adrian held up the script for her to see, but quickly put it back down again when he received another piercing glare. "I guess you could fix it on your own though," he quickly added, "So you knew Arthur Schmidt, then?"

"I'm sorry to say yes," Karen plopped down on the couch, "The louse was helping to finance my picture. He made some undercover deal a while back with the head of production that kept him on board, even though he clearly knows nothing about art. Every day he'd send down one of his corporate flunkies to the set just to criticize everything I did. In fact, reliable sources told me earlier in the week that he was going to just pull the plug on the whole production next week because he felt I was too far over budget. Now you look at our expenditure listings," she withdrew a set of sheets from the drawer of the nearest cabinet and waved them in Disher's face, "Does this look like I'm even one cent over budget to you?"

"Um," Disher squinted at the papers, "I don't understand a single thing they're saying on this, but I guess I'll take your word for it. Anyway, Karen, the real reason we're here is that…well…I not quite sure how to say this…we found an old rifle in Schmidt's car with your fingerprints on it."

"Ah, so he's the one who stole them after all!" Karen snorted.

"Stole?" Natalie asked.

"I put in an invoice for vintage 1850s era rifles for the federal troops to use during the climax," the director told her, "I want this to be as historically accurate a picture as possible. Schmidt objected with the paltry excuse that we didn't have the money for it. So last week I got four of them from the distributor and put them in my trunk while I went to check the lighting on one scene we were setting up for. I'm gone five minutes and the trunk's empty. I questioned the whole crew, but no one saw anything. I should have known it was Schmidt anyway."

"Um, why didn't you tell us then?" Disher had to ask, "We would have ordered an investigation on…"

"Because it would have ended up on Leland's desk, and my business is no longer his!" she barked at him unexpectedly. After a minute, she took a deep breath and said, "Forgive me, but if you'd lived with Leland as long as I did, you wouldn't want him looking into your business either."

"So you did handle the rifles, then?" Adrian asked, flicking at the chandelier.

"Yes, I did," she told him, "That's why you got my fingerprints. It's a shame someone killed Schmidt, because I would have loved nothing better than to drag his sorry rump into court on theft charges, but at least I can rest easy knowing someone gave him what he deserved. How did he die anyway?"

"He was stabbed four times with something sharp, and shot once through the neck," Natalie said, pulling Adrian away from the chandelier, "We'd just like to know, for the record, Karen, where were you last night?"

"On the set, filming a major scene," Karen told her firmly, "You can ask anyone on the crew, they'll back me up. And you can forget about accusing me if he was shot; you know as much as the next person that I hate guns and would never shoot anyone. Now really if you have no further questions, I really have to get going; we'll be shooting on Russian Hill until midnight."

"Um, I guess we're good; Monk?" Disher asked him.

"Uh…yes, yes we are," Adrian said. His eyes were gazing intently at a small spot of discolored paint on the painting over the fireplace, but with Natalie firmly clutching both his hands at the moment, there wasn't much he could do. "Thank, thank you for your time, Karen," he told her, somehow bringing himself to shake her hand.

"I'm going to ask you not to say anything to Leland about this," Karen warned him as he waved to Natalie for a wipe, "As I said earlier, this is none of his concern, especially since I didn't kill Arthur Schmidt. And tell him that if he doesn't abide by the court's ruling this morning, the judge will have no choice but to increase the payments again."

"Well, I'm not sure I can make a guarantee if…" Adrian started to protest.

"I asked you if we have an agreement?" Karen pointed a finger in his face. "Yes, sure, I won't say anything," the detective said quickly.

"Then you can excuse me, since I have lots of work to do," the director walked into the kitchen and started gathering up cases of equipment. Her visitors slipped out the front door. "Talk about being uptight," Natalie remarked once they were outside, "She's definitely taking life way too seriously lately."

"Well the important question is," Disher turned to Adrian, "What do you think, Monk?"

"It's kind of the middle," Adrian climbed into the back seat, "It just doesn't seem like her not to report the rifles stolen. That's not the Karen I knew all those years."

"So you're saying she's lying to us?" the lieutenant asked.

"I wouldn't exactly say she's lying," Adrian leaned over the seat and started playing around with Disher's rearview mirror, which was crooked, "But something still doesn't seem right here. Especially with this mirror. Why they issue ones with…"

There was a loud snapping noise as the mirror broke off in Adrian's hand. He stared at it for a few seconds, then handed it to a disapproving Disher. "Anyway," the detective added as Disher started the car and pulled out into traffic, "Let's just hope the captain's in a reasonable mood when we get back."

* * *

Reasonable, however, would not have been an accurate description of Stottlemeyer's mood at all when the three of them returned to the precinct. The moment they set foot back in the squad room, the sound of crashing could be heard from the captain's office. A quick peek in the door revealed him snatching random items off his desk and hurling them into the wall in frustration. "Oh it's you guys," he greeted them when he realized they were standing in the doorway watching him, "Don't mind me, I was just blindsided in court. That legal loser Tepperman sold his theory to the judge that just because I've got a bigger place, I should be paying double the alimony I'm currently paying. DOUBLE! I can barely afford paying the rent, even with help from Linda, and he says I should go broke trying to pay off everything he claims I owe at once! And you want to know what's worse? She just sits there with this satisfied grin on her face and enjoys watching him run me into the dirt! We've come to the point where she actually enjoys seeing me hurt and hurt bad! I never kicked her when she was down…!"

He slumped into his chair and covered his face. "Almost twenty years," he mumbled, deep hurt welling up in his voice, "You think you love someone, and they go do things like this to you. You just can't trust anyone these days, I can tell you that." He took several deep breaths and added, "But I guess you don't want to spend all day listening to my problems. They told me you went out on a lead; did you find anything that could help put this case on ice?"

Adrian squinted his eyes shut in discomfort. He had vivid memories in his head of just how unpleasant Natalie had become when he'd initially decided to rule Jimmy Cusack's death a suicide even when he knew otherwise. Stottlemeyer, the detective had strong reason to suspect, would probably take a similar lie in this instance at least ten times worse. But at the moment, he just couldn't bring himself to tell his superior what he knew. "Uh, no," he said quickly, "It, it turned out to be a dead end, no connection at all. You find anything out?"

"Apart from the fact my ex-wife lives to rub my face in the dirt, no," the captain snorted, "Lieutenant, did you get the fingerprint analysis on that rifle back yet?"

"Uh, yeah," Disher twisted about uncomfortably himself, "They did find Schmidt's prints on it. That's about it."

"Well then, things look like they're still wide open," Stottlemeyer rose and paced around his office, "The papers are all over this, so I hope we can eventually bring this to a quick end."

"Um, Schmidt's wife said her son had threatened to kill him," Natalie said quickly.

"Ah, good, some progress," the captain nodded, "You guys go check up on that, because I'm afraid I'm in too bad a mood to really go out there today. In fact, I think I'm going to need a coffee right about now, so if you'll excuse me a minute."

He trudged out the door. His associates exchanged nervous glances. "There's no way we can keep it from him forever," Disher spoke their minds in one swoop, "We've got to figure it out and hope she's not really involved after all."


	5. Mr Monk Meets Some More Suspects

"You've been really quiet since we started to come here," Natalie pointed out to her boss as they pulled into a parking space on the outskirts of Golden Gate Park near the Japanese Tea Garden, "You also flinched at the mention of John Schmidt's name earlier."

"I didn't flinch," Adrian said in protest, but there was a rather dark look on his face as they got out of the car.

"You most certainly did," she told him, "I know a strong flinch when I see one. Do you know John Schmidt?"

Adrian sighed deeply, heavy pain on his face. "I never met him," he said slowly, "But Trudy knew him very well. She dated him her first few months at Berkeley. Then one day he just broke it off on her. It broke her heart for months."

An expression of rage contorted his face at the mere thought of anyone causing Trudy any pain. His gaze fell out the window. "And that's him right there," he said, pointing forcefully at a clean-cut man in a gray sweatshirt jogging along with a huge Newfoundland—they'd called John Schmidt's office earlier and learned that he would be in Golden Gate Park for the afternoon; Disher had gone to see if he could locate the exact location where Arthur Schmidt had been murdered. "But let's come back later, when he doesn't have the dog," he said quickly upon taking note of it.

"We may not have a later," Natalie remind him, dragging him out of the car, "But how do you know it's him when you said you never…?"

"I never met him up front, but early on after I met Trudy, I noticed his photo in her purse, before she let go of him for good," Adrian explained, "When I learned Arthur Schmidt's name, I wondered if there was a relation, and now I know." He approached their newest suspect as he leaned against a chestnut to take a breath from the jogging. "John Schmidt, I'm Adrian Monk, this is…" he started to say.

"Adrian Monk, I'm so glad to finally meet you," Schmidt took his hand and shook it despite the dark look that lingered on Adrian's face, "I just want to tell you how sorry I am about what happened to Trudy. If you'd called me, I would have helped any way I could have."

"That wouldn't have been necessary, John," Adrian told him with thinly veiled contempt, "You already helped things enough when…easy, sit boy."

Schmidt's Newfoundland was sniffing away at the detective's shoes, causing him to take several large steps backwards. "Cosmo, sit!" Schmidt ordered it. "Strange, he never gets like this around other people," he mused.

"Well, John," Adrian backed up against a tree with a look of great distaste now crossing his face—almost certainly since Cosmo was now leaping up on his hind legs and scratching at the detective's tuxedo buttons, "Anyway, we tracked you down because, well, your father dropped dead in my living room, as you probably heard."

"I didn't kill him, if that's what you're asking—Cosmo, down, leave him alone!" Schmidt barked at his pet, but the dog refused to back down. It started licking Adrian's palms, prompting him to frantically wave at Natalie for wipes. "Hairbrush too!" he pleaded.

"I didn't bring one," Natalie told him. Ignoring his frustrated howl at the prospect of being covered in dog hair, she turned to Schmidt and asked, "Where were you last night between seven and nine?"

"At the Hong Yong Kitchen in Chinatown," Schmidt snapped his fingers, which finally prompted his dog to trot over to him, "I was dining with my father's partner Mr. Hallett. Have a seat over here and I'll tell you the whole story."

He started walking toward a nearby bench. "Hold on, hold on," Adrian rushed over to it before he could sit down and scrubbed away at a series of bird droppings on the seat with his wipes. "Thanks," Schmidt told him.

"Only out of common courtesy," Adrian gave him a steely look, "Between you, Dale the Whale, and whoever detonated that bomb, Trudy was put through more grief than she deserved."

"Will you just drop it, Monk, it was almost twenty-five years ago!" Schmidt protested to him, "And you want to know the real truth? My father made me break up with her. He didn't think Trudy was high-class enough for me. At the time I was too spineless to stand up to him. Seeing that hurt look on her face was the worst experience I ever had."

"Too bad she had to…" Adrian yelped in discomfort as Cosmo leaped up and pawed at him again. "Has he been fed lately?" the detective whimpered, trying to push the Newfoundland away.

"So you were going to tell us more?" Natalie inquired, sitting down with the suspect.

Schmidt looked at the ground. "I'd be lying if I told you I got along fine with my father," he said slowly, "And not just for what he made me do to Trudy. He wanted me to do exactly as he did, to micromanage my life. I could never live with that. And then I learned from Mr. Hallett he was planning on buying out my own company so he could force me into the fold as his successor. That's why I was meeting with him last night; he said he was going to protect me and expose the shady dealings my father had made."

"So in other words you have no qualms about letting him go to jail?" Adrian picked up a stick with his tweezers and tossed it as hard as he could toward the nearest pond. Cosmo eagerly ran after it. The detective ran behind a nearby tree and crouched low.

"I worked had to established that trading firm," Schmidt told him firmly, "He was going to ruin it all for his own greed if Mr. Hallett didn't step in. But again, I was there at the restaurant until long after his body was found. And I would not have killed him no matter how mad I was at him."

"Can you verify you were at the rest—EEEAAAAIIIIIIIICCCKKKKK!" Adrian was abruptly jumped from behind by Cosmo, who pinned the detective down and licked his face in delight. Schmidt laughed at the sight. "You know, I think he really likes you," he remarked.

"HEELLLLLLLPPP!" Adrian screamed for all of San Francisco to hear, "Someone call the Humane Society! On second thought, get the Marines!"

"I don't have the receipt, but Mr. Hallett can probably vouch for the both of us," Schmidt glanced at his watch, "If you hurry, you might be able to catch him before he leaves for the day. Speaking of which, I'd better get going myself; my break ends in ten minutes. Cosmo, come!"

The dog abandoned Adrian and followed his master toward the park's exit. Adrian leapt to his feet and started gyrating around as if fire ants were attacking him. His suit was now covered from collar to pant legs in dog hair. "Just look at this!" he complained to Natalie as she came over with an amused smile on her face and picked a few pieces of hair off him, "I really hope he did do it; anyone with a dog like that is a menace to society! Now I'm going to need a body transplant!"

"A body transplant?" Natalie gave him a completely befuddled look.

"Something like cloning, except it's your same body, or something like that," Adrian swiped clumps of hair off his sleeves, "Anyway, let's call his friend Hallett and get him down here; I need to know the timeline of when exactly they were in that restaurant."

"Well the Schmidt and Hallett building's only five minutes from here," his assistant pointed out, "We can easily walk there and meet him."

"Oh no, no, no, no," Adrian shook his head, "Not that big building with forty floors. You know he has to put his office the top floor when it's that high, and I'm not going all the way up there to the top. You can't make me go up there, no way, shape or how. Either he comes to us or bust, that's that."

* * *

"OK, you're almost there, Mr. Monk, just five more steps to go," Natalie told him with a mixture of frustration and genuine concern. Adrian was on his hands and knees on the stairs inside the Schmidt and Hallett building, whimpering as he slowly worked his way up one step at a time. The staircase had unfortunately had large windows at every other landing, offering what many people would have considered a beautiful vista of all of San Francisco. To Adrian however, it only reinforced the notion that they were going to be forty stories up, and he'd made the mistake of glancing out one of the windows on the twenty-ninth floor. He'd been too paralyzed to do anything other than crawl up the remaining steps, despite the strange looks people passing by him had given him.

Taking deep, almost psychotic breaths, he forced his way up the remaining stairs to the topmost landing. He barged through the door into the waiting room and breathed a huge sigh of relief. "There," Natalie patted him on the pat, sounding only half sincere, "That wasn't so hard, now was it?"

"Yeah, it really was," the detective said, waving for a wipe, "This really makes Lucas Breen's building look like a two-story job in comparison."

Natalie decided not tot say anything. They approached the front desk. "We're here to see Nicolas Hallett," she told the receptionist.

"Where have you been?" the receptionist demanded, "He's been waiting over an hour for you. He was just about to get ready to leave for the day."

She waved the two of them into Hallett's office. Adrian abruptly stopped in the doorframe and stared around the room in wonder. "What?" Natalie asked him.

"It's immaculate!" the detective said in awe. Indeed, everything in the office seemed to be set up at perfect right angles. "It's absolutely perfect!" he continued, craning his neck into every possible angle of the room, "I could actually work here."

"I glad you could, because it's gotten harder for me lately," said the gray-haired man behind the large oak desk that was positioned exactly in the center of the room, "Adrian Monk, I'm Nicolas Hallett, what took you so long?"

"We would have been here sooner, but this is on the top floor and all," Adrian told him, waving for another wipe once Hallett had shaken his hand, "I, I really have to commend you, Mr. Hallett, this is really a fabulous office."

"You can thank my executive assistant James Marshall for it," Hallett told him, "He has, how do I say this, a passion for making sure things are evened out. Now I guess this is all about Arthur, why you called me?"

"Hold it, hold it a minute," Adrian leaned forward and buttoned a button on Hallett's shirt that he'd apparently failed to notice, "There, that's perfect now," the detective nodded, "Mr. Hallett, when was the last time you saw Arthur Schmidt alive?"

"About four hours before they found him dead," Hallett told him, "They say he died in your place, the papers said?"

Adrian nodded, a discomforted look on his face at the thought of the dead man's blood all over his rug again. "Well, he came by my place completed uninvited and accused me of destroying his company. HIS company, mind you," Hallett shook his head and started pacing around behind his desk, "Never mind that we built it together from scratch; by now Arthur was convinced that the whole thing had been HIS idea, that I was just along for the ride. Anyway, we yelled at each other for about five minutes before he stormed off, threatening to leave me in the gutter with the deal he was brokering to sell the company out."

"I remember reading something about that in the paper a couple of months ago," Natalie remarked, "To some big foreign company, wasn't it?"

"Togoshaki Limited," Hallett shook his head in disgust, "Without the board's approval and without any of us in the deal; he was going to take the money and run. The entire board vetoed the deal, but reliable sources told me he was going ahead with it behind our backs." He sat back down and put his head on the desk. "Promise you won't say anything yet, but the fact is I was going to go to federal authorities and tell them all the dirty things Arthur's done since this power corrupted him," he admitted, "Including his tapping into customers' personal accounts for private information he could use if he needed to blackmail anyone. The only way to save all of us was going to be to bring him down."

"Schmidt's son said you were going to protect him," Adrian sat back in a large armchair, almost at home in the perfectly aligned office.

Hallett shook his head again. "I feel so sorry for Marilyn and John," he said slowly, "Over the years Arthur abused them in every possible way apart from with his fists. Yes, I was going to get Arthur to back off his son's business. In fact we were supposed to meet up with him at the restaurant and confront him on the matter face to face, but Arthur never showed, and now at least I know he had a legitimate excuse this time, being dead and all."

"Can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to kill him?" Adrian closed his eyes, more or less completely relaxed for once in his life.

"Oh just ask the entire board; they would have given anything to get rid of him once they found out he was stabbing them in the back," Hallett said, chewing on a piece of gum he'd pulled from his desk drawer.

"How about with Karen Stottlemeyer and the film shoot on Russian Hill?" Natalie asked him, "We were told you were helping to finance it."

"Oh don't even get me started on that," Hallett put his face in his hands, "That's just been a whole debacle from the start, and we can't back out of it now, we've invested too much. Arthur wanted to move into the film business for whatever reason, probably just to put his name on a big film. He wants everything his way, Karen Stottlemeyer wants everything her way, and I'm the poor guy stuck in between. I've fielded numerous calls from her personally since the shoot began threatening to do terrible things to Arthur unless he backed off her film."

"So she has made threats to him?" Adrian's eyes snapped wide open, "How serious?"

"Serious enough that she was going to sue the entire company for his actions," Hallett admitted, "Over a hundred million dollars. And just last weekend I fielded a call where she called him, and I quote, 'A dead man.' I made a last ditch effort to maintain the peace by sending James to oversee the production; people tend to listen to him more. But like I said, getting into this film was a mistake."

The grandfather clock in the corner struck five o'clock. "Well, I'd love to continue this conversation, but I promised my daughter I'd take her to see the Bangles tonight," Hallett rose again and reached for his coat on the back of his chair, "Did you ever see them, Detective Monk?"

"Of course," Adrian told him, "They had a pretty good team last year. Wasn't it just amazing when What's His Name threw the big score to What's His Name in the big game?"

Hallett stared at the detective incredulously. "Anyway," he said slowly, "Perhaps we could continue this conversation at a later time. You two probably know the way out."

"Oh believe me we do, we really do," Adrian rose up from the chair, "One more thing before you go, Mr. Hallett: roughly when did you get to the restaurant with John Schmidt last night?"

"Oh, somewhere between six and six thirty," Hallett said as he walked toward the office door, "I didn't have the exact time. Anyway, have a nice night, you two."

"Same to you," Natalie waved goodbye to him, "Come on Mr. Monk, they're closing up for the night."

"Not just yet," Adrian retreated back to the chair, "This is so good being in here…if he's guilty and he goes to jail, I want to rent this place out."

"Maybe later," repeating what was becoming an increasingly common occurrence, Natalie dragged him out of the office towards the stairs. "So how about him, could he have done it?" she asked him.

"Of course he could have, it seems like everyone could have," Adrian turned his body toward the wall of the stairwell so he wouldn't have to look out the windows, "Particularly telling is that A, in all the pictures of his family in that office, he's wearing a large gold ring with the initials N.H., which he wasn't wearing just now. And B, in another picture he has a .38 caliber pistol in his den. The exact type that was used to shoot Arthur Schmidt. We need to verify that his time for being in the restaurant is right. But first, we've got to check out the board, just in case one of them might have done it."

"Well, we don't have all night to go around and ask the entire board where they were," Natalie protested, "I have to make sure Julie's in bed by nine; there is school tomorrow you know."

"This won't take too long," Adrian inched his way along a landing that happened to be near another window, "I hope. Since you said the deal with the foreign company was in the paper a while back, we'll need to get it from someone who has it, and I know

who would have it." His expression became muddied. "I'm going to hate myself for involving him in this," he added, "But he is our best bet at the moment. Anyway, we're going to Tewkesbury once we get down to the ground floor, which will probably be in about, oh, a year or so."


	6. Help from Ambrose

It was just after sunset that Adrian-with a wipe firmly over his finger-rang his brother's doorbell. It took about forty seconds for the door to creak open and Ambrose's face to appear in the opening. "Adrian, Natalie, so nice of you two to drop in," the instruction manual writer greeted them, "What happens to be the occasion? I didn't hear from Dad..."

"No, no, Ambrose," Adrian told him, "We'd, we'd like to look at some of your newspapers; we're working on an important case right now."

"Arthur Schmidt's death, I presume?" Ambrose inquired correctly, "It's been all over the news, so I was guessing you'd be on it. Come on in."

He opened the door all the way and gestured them inside. The den was cluttered with the usual collection of mail and half-typed instruction sheets. Ambrose's three-dimensional chess set sat on the coffee table, showing Ambrose was partially through another game with himself. Adrian walked over and centered all of the pieces on their squares. "So are you winning lately, Ambrose?" he asked with just a tinge of sardonism.

"That would depend on how you define winning," Ambrose responded cryptically. He turned to Natalie asked with a warm smile, "Would you like a drink?"

"Actually, I am a bit thirsty," Natalie admitted, "What do you have?"

"How about a nice soda?" Ambrose asked. When she nodded, he gestured toward the kitchen and said, "This way and we'll go fix it up for you."

The kitchen was meticulously arranged as always, with Ambrose's dishes all washed for the evening and sitting in the drying rack (much to Adrian's delight; he had no idea how he'd have survived if he'd come when Ambrose hadn't cleaned them yet). One clean plate, however, still sat in front of what had been their father's seat. Adrian stared wistfully at it. While it had been nice to finally see his father again after all the years apart, the void was still there now that he was on the road again. "He's still going to stop by some day," his brother leaned over his shoulder, "I have to be ready when he comes."

Adrian couldn't really think of anything to say to this. He knew how disappointed Ambrose had to been to not have been able to meet their father at Christmas as well. He watched as Ambrose turned slowly and reached into the cabinet over the sink for the mug marked with a big number four. "Why, why are you doing that?" the detective asked him.

"What?" Ambrose gave him a quizzical look.

"Why take Number Four?" Adrian pointed out, "Number One's right there on the end, that makes more sense to use that first."

"Number Four is my guest mug for the month," Ambrose told him, "You know I rotate the guest mugs every month; you've known that for at least the last seventeen and a half years."

"But I think Natalie would be happier with Number One, wouldn't you?" Adrian glanced at her.

"It doesn't matter, Mr. Monk," she told him, "If Ambrose wants the fourth one, let him use the fourth one."

"How, how about he takes Number Four, then, and I take Numbers One, Two, and Three, and that way you have things...nice and even?" the detective suggested.

"Mr. Monk, I'm not THAT thirsty," she was starting to look frustrated again.

"I'm getting Number Four," Ambrose reached for the mug.

"I'm telling you, Number Four doesn't want to be disturbed," Adrian grabbed for it at the same time. their arms knocked the mug marked with the number three off the shelf, causing it to shatter on the floor into dozens of pieces. Both Monk brothers gasped in horror at its fate. "Now look what you've done!" they shouted simultaneously at each other.

"Hey, easy!" Natalie stepped between them, "Do I have to separate you two?"

"Look at it!" Adrian pointed at the broken mug as if it were a poisonous serpent, "He killed Number Three! It's dead!"

"It wasn't my fault!" Ambrose protested, "I suppose you're going to say what happened to Number Nine was deliberate too while you're at it!"

"Well I'm not replacing it!" Adrian shouted, "If you want another Number Three, you'll have to go out and get...!"

"STOP!" Natalie shouted loud enough to break every window in the house. This easily prompted the brothers into silence. "Mr. Monk," she rounded on her employee, "If this mess means so much to you, go clean it up and let Ambrose go."

"I WAS going to clean it up," Adrian walked toward the hallway, pausing briefly to add, "But he DID kill Number Three; I'll testify in court it was murder."

Natalie shook her head. "I swear, some day I'd love to know how you were able to put up with him when you were younger," she confided in Ambrose as he put Mug #4, now filled with orange soda, in front of her.

"Sometimes I wonder myself," Ambrose admitted. He gave her an awkward smile. "So, um, happy belated birthday, since I didn't get a chance to see you then," he blurted out, "How's Julie doing?"

"Good, very good, in fact she just missed honor roll last semester," Natalie told him, "I'm glad she's willing to put some effort into school now. How about you?"

"Oh, I've got the usual quota of manuals to be done by next week," Ambrose said, staring out the window, "I should probably get started again once our business here is over and done with. Of course, I do try and call out more Saturday night, but the line's always busy."

He seemed rather depressed. "Wait...you've been calling Crimestoppers too?" Natalie was amazed.

"It was fairly obvious that the head clerk stole the money from the Redding Bank of Northern California," Ambrose recalled the details of one crime in particular, "He was the only one who knew how to break down the vault at the key time. Of course, it doesn't help that I'm, not the more adventurous brother..."

There came a creaking from behind the door. Adrian slipped into sight again, broom and dustpan in hand. "Ambrose, I...I..." he started to say.

"Please, don't say anything," Ambrose shrugged, "You were always the one destined to do great things."

There was deep disappointment on his face that made Adrian feel quite guilty. "Ambrose, you don't understand, I have a responsibility to Trudy," he explained, "If I can't solve her case, I have to solve as many others as I can."

"I have a responsibility to her too!" Ambrose let out a cry filled with pity, "I owe her something too; probably the same thing you do!"

"Ambrose, how many times do we have to go over this?" Adrian told him, "It was not your fault Trudy was in that garage; do you understand!?"

Ambrose lowered his head, apparently not fully convinced. "I can't do what you do," he said softly, "You can go and help anyone any time you want. Crimestoppers is all I have. And I can't redeem myself if I can't tell them what I know."

For a moment there was an uncomfortable silence in the kitchen. "But anyway, "Natalie broke it, "We did come here on a case."

"Oh yes, Arthur Schmidt," Ambrose mood brightened, "What do you know so far?"

"Not as much as we'd like," Adrian admitted. He and Natalie related everything they knew so far. Ambrose took it all in silently. "OK," he said once they were finished, "What I'm thinking is that Schmidt was lured there by the killer..."

"Which would be easier if we had any clue where he was killed," his brother added.

"...Schmidt charged the killer once the sharp objects hit him in the chest," Ambrose continued, "He was right on top of the killer, who didn't have the best angle to shoot at him and was lucky he managed to sever his jugular. Schmidt then somehow knew how to come to you."

"How, I don't know," Adrian swept up the piece of Number Three and dumped them into the trashcan. Then he walked over to the sink and rearranged the dishes in order of plates, cups, and utensils, "Like I said, I never met him before in my life."

"So how do you explain the stab wounds on his chest lining up as perfectly straight as they are?" Natalie inquired to Ambrose.

"Well, given your description of them, it's fairly clear that whatever was run into him was flung through the air rather than shoved in," the instruction manual writer explained, "To inflict the kinds of wounds you've described, they'd have to be traveling at a rate of at least sixty-five feet per second, faster than most people can throw. Plus, the wounds are grooved, hinting that the objected were jagged rather than perfectly straight, so you can definitely rule out iron spikes or anything along that line."

"Interesting, Ambrose," Adrian straightened several pictures of his family on the wall, "The reason we came by, though, is that we were hoping you had some information in the papers about Schmidt and Hallett and the proposed merger Hallett told us about. We need to know more about the board and the deal."

"As a matter of fact, I distinctly remember reading three articles about that would-be deal, so let's go see what we can find," Ambrose led the way into the den, where every newspaper for the last thirty-five years lay stacked as far as the eye could see. The instruction manual writer gazed at the middle of the stack against the middle of the far wall. "It, It would help to keep them in more of a chronological order," Adrian pointed out.

"I have my own system," Ambrose said defensively, "You wouldn't understand."

"You've got that right," Adrian shook his head. Ambrose reached into the stack he was examining and extracted a paper marked January 22. "It was on the middle of page five," he said, opening up the paper to the point in question. The three of them proceeded to read:

_SCHMIDT AND HALLETT TO BE SOLD TO OVERSEAS GROUP _

_A deal was announced today that would allow Schmidt and Hallett Financial House to be bought out by the Togoshaki Limited Corporation of Japan, a well-known financial institution in that country. Terms of the sale were not released to the press, but one investor has publicly decreed the deal, saying that it was made without the board of directors' approval. The investor, whose name was not released, has said the decision will be challenged._

"Well, nothing there we don't already know," Adrian shook his head, "What else is there, Ambrose?"

"Give me a minute," Ambrose scanned a stack of newspapers nowhere near the stack he'd gotten the previous paper out of. This time he took one from the bottom of the stack. "This one's from February third," he told them, "On page three."

"How do you remember that?" Natalie was impressed.

"It's a blessing and a curse," Ambrose admitted. He joined her and his brother in reading:

_S & H BOARD DIRECTOR AXED _

_James Marshall, 44, was today relieved of his duties as chairman of the board of Schmidt and Hallett Financial House as the company's internal struggle over a potential buyout from an overseas firm intensified. Marshall had been serving in this capacity for the last five years. _

_"I worked hard to get that job," a seemingly bitter Marshall told reporters from his Pacific Heights residence, "Arthur Schmidt took it from me because I tried to veto his secret and illegal_ _deal with Togoshaki Limited. He'll pay for this, I'll tell you right now."_

_Schmidt had no comment. This paper learned today that Schmidt and Hallett will be the focus of an impending FCC investigation on..._

"Wait a minute," Adrian jerked his head up, "Marshall...Hallett said he was working as his aide."

"I remember," Natalie nodded, "Has he been sheltering him in some way?"

"I'd love to know what Marshall's up to," Adrian straightened the creases in the newspaper, "I hope it's not him, given how attentive he is to detail like me, but if it is..."

Natalie's cell phone rang before he could finish. "Yes?" she said into it, "Really? That helps. He is? We'll be there. The lieutenant," she informed the Monk brothers, "They think they know where Schmidt was killed. The captain's going to be there, so we'll have to be careful what we say."

"No problem there at all," visions of a Stottlemeyer upset over his ex's potential involvement in Schmidt's murder had plagued Adrian all day. He turned to Ambrose. "You, you wouldn't mind if we borrowed the paper for a while, just so we can read the rest of what you've got?"

"Do you realize what that would do?" Ambrose protested, "That would throw out of whack everything I've worked so hard to...!"

"We'll give it right back when we're done," Natalie reassured him. Ambrose thought it over for a minute, then shrugged and produced another newspaper from the stack closest to the door. "It's on page four," he informed his guests as they headed for the door, "Try not to tear it. In the meantime, my advice is to try and figure out the time frame so you can judge who could have been at the crime scene when the murder took place. Oh, and Adrian?"

"Yes?" Adrian turned back around in the doorway.

"If it's not a problem, could you try to call out less on Saturday nights?" his brother gave him a hopeful look. Adrian quickly turned away and walked toward Natalie's car with his head down. "Why does he always insist on making me feel guilty?" he asked out loud.

"Well Mr. Monk, he does have a point," his assistant told him as they pulled out into traffic, "Maybe you should ease off of Crimestoppers for once in a while and give him a chance."

"But I told you, I'd be breaking my vow to Trudy if I did that," Adrian protested, "If it's that important to him, I'll ask them to put in a second hotline for him next week."

Natalie decided not to say anything to this. "He's right about whatever impaled Schmidt, though," her employer went on, "It's clear something out of the ordinary happened there. Maybe the crime scene will tell us what we need to know."


	7. A Cold Crime Scene

A full moon was rising above the clouds hovering over the eastern horizon when the two of them pulled up to an abandoned refrigerator warehouse on the waterfront that was now surrounded by squad cars. "Interesting choice by the killer," Adrian remarked as he sized it up, "This whole area's been run down and abandoned for about a year. Schmidt wouldn't have as much luck going for help here. Not to mention that this whole place is probably a haven for…ahhhhhh! Shoo! Fly off! Please…!"

A gull had landed unexpectedly on the detective's head. He waved his arms frantically at it. "I am not a toilet!" he pleaded it, "Natalie, a little help please!"

But his assistant was too busy laughing to be of much help. Fortunately the gull flew off as quickly as it had arrived. Adrian wiped frantically at his hair. "Nothing," he breathed a large sigh of relief, "If it had…."

"Monk, good, you're here," Disher had come running up. He lowered his voice and said, "Before we go in, I should tell you, I called the film shoot; three separate people confirm Karen was on the set at the time Schmidt's came to your apartment."

"Unfortunately that doesn't prove anything," Adrian shook his head, "I've seen more complicated murders than this be…"

"Oh good, Monk, you made it," the captain's voice wafted up from behind them. Everyone jumped slightly, causing Stottlemeyer to look at them strangely when they all turned around. "What?" he asked.

"Oh, uh, didn't know you were there, Captain," Adrian told him quickly, "What have we got here?"

"That's why we brought you here, Monk; I've got nothing so far," Stottlemeyer waved them all toward the warehouse. "We got bloodstains in the main storage area," he told them, "Preliminary tests match Schmidt's blood type. Our question is, what was he doing in this godforsaken place?"

"Especially a place this cold," Natalie shivered visibly and wrapped her arms around her chest, "It's freezing in here. Did they usually keep this place this cold?"

"Well it has been pretty cold at night lately," the captain theorized, "And this place hasn't been in use for six months, so they can't exactly warm it up."

"Actually, she's got a bit of a point," Adrian raised his hand, "This building's been deliberately made cold. Look," he strode over to the corner of the nearest intersecting hallway and pointed at the thermostat, "It's set to less than fifty degrees in here."

Stottlemeyer and Disher stared at the thermostat. "Interesting," the captain remarked, "But what does it mean?"

"Water!"

"What does water have to do with a cold warehouse, Monk?"

"No, there's water all over the floor here," Adrian was now hopping up and down, having made the mistake of stepping in an unusually long puddle of water stretching from where they were to the main chamber of the warehouse. The detective removed his shoe and shoved it toward Natalie. "Backup," he asked her.

"A backup shoe?" she gave him a strained look, "Mr. Monk, I can't carry backups for every single thing you have. I just don't have the room!"

"Seriously, woman, don't you ever prepare for anything!" Adrian shouted, to everyone's great surprise, "I insist that people who work for me be ready for…!"

"OK, moving back to the real world," Stottlemeyer tapped the detective hard on the shoulder to bring him back to earth, "We think Schmidt was killed in here, so if you'll just follow me."

Adrian hopped up the hallway after him on one foot, to the amazement of all the other law enforcement officials now around them. Once inside the main storage bay, he started making familiar obtuse gestures as he examined the area. Everyone around fell silent as the detective went through his routines. Adrian hopped to a halt behind a stack of crates. "The killer was standing right here," he finally announced, "Schmidt came in through the door we did."

He started restacking the crates in a perfectly straight order. "Monk, please don't do that!" Stottlemeyer scolded him, "We're going to need the fingerprints!"

"You won't find any," the detective pointed out, "The killer wore gloves. You can see paint flecks right here on the crates."

He pointed them out for the captain's benefit. "And there was a third person in here as well," he announced, "They were right over there behind the door. A man with size twelve boots."

"Huh?" the captain rushed over to the spot Adrian had pointed out. "Amazing," he commented, noticing the clear footprints in the sawdust, "How did we miss this?"

"And what have we here?" Adrian in the meantime hopped backwards—his arms outstretched to the sides to maintain some semblance of balance—toward one of the old broken refrigerators in the room. He bent down—without actually having his foot touch the floor--and examined a shattered vacuum tube hose. He reached into his pocket for his tweezers and lifted something small and thin off the hose. "Dog hair," he announced as everyone ran over to him. He looked upward at Natalie. "Newfoundland hair."

"You're absolutely sure?" she squinted at it.

"Oh believe me, I know now," he grimaced with thoughts of his encounter earlier in the day with John Schmidt's dog.

"OK, so a Newfoundland is important here?" Stottlemeyer inquired.

"It could be, captain," Adrian told him, swaying and almost losing his balance from his continued hopping on one foot. He related to his boss what he'd learned from and about Schmidt. Stottlemeyer nodded slowly when the lecture was over with. "So this guy warrants our attention," he commented when it was over, "Interesting, Monk. Did you find anything else out, seeing how you've been out all day?"

"Um," Adrian shot a worried glance at Natalie, who in turn glanced at Disher. Stottlemeyer raised an eyebrow at this silent game of hot potato, but if he suspected anything he didn't say anything. "Well, um, we have a few more ideas," the detective said slowly. He went on about everything they'd found out that didn't involve Karen. "What I'm wondering," he quickly changed the subject at the end, "The angles of the wounds on Schmidt don't make sense still. The killer had a straight shot into his chest from this point here. How could he have missed his chest like that? And what was that other person doing in here too?"

"Well, we'll put out an APB on…" Stottlemeyer grunted out loud as Adrian accidentally kicked him with his flailing leg. "Miss Teeger, put his shoe on for him, that's an order!" the captain told her.

"When it's sopping wet? I don't think so!" Adrian leaned his shoulder up against a support column to steady himself.

"Well you can't just go hopping around all night, Mr. Monk," she informed him, reaching toward his foot with the shoe.

"Oh yes I can," he squirmed away, "You don't know me very well; I could do this for hours on…hey!"

Stottlemeyer seized hold of his shoulders and held him still while Natalie slipped the shoe back on Adrian's foot. The detective sighed as shook his foot around in what looked like an attempt to quickly dry it, but otherwise took it in stride. "It was worth a try," he shrugged.

"All right, bag all the evidence here and get it down to the lab," Stottlemeyer pointed at the broken vacuum hose in particular, "The more we know the quicker this will all take." He then abruptly sided up along Adrian as the detective started to walk away and asked him, "Before you go, Monk, I'd like a word with you in private."

"You would?" Adrian gulped loudly. He quickly cleared his throat and repeated with a more innocent tone, "You would?"

"This way, my friend," Stottlemeyer led him out the door and around the back of the warehouse. He stopped him on a fairly isolated spot along the docks. "Monk, I'd like you to do a favor for me in the next week or so," he told him once they were alone.

"Again?" Adrian sighed.

"Monk, you were at the preliminary hearing for the alimony payments," Stottlemeyer said with deep bitterness in his voice. Adrian had a sinking feeling where the conversation was going. "What she did to me today in that court was completely unfair," the captain confirmed his fears, "She and that sludge Tepperman completely inflated my income earnings so they could convince the judge to tax me to death—I think I might have said this earlier, but I've got to say it again. I'm not just going to sit back and let her walk all over me this time, Monk; I know it's time I make a stand."

"Do, do you really think that's really something you want to do, captain?" Adrian said the only thing he thought could dissuade his superior.

"Absolutely, Monk," Stottlemeyer nodded emphatically, "I've given it loads of thought, and right now it's the only real option I have. You know how much I really make; I need you to testify and set them all straight. I don't really want to do it, but this time she's crossed the line; if she wants to be this dirty, I have to show her I can play that game too. If anyone should be paying more, it's her; everything I hear her saying before each damn hearing about her big new picture deal to that slime."

"About the miners, yes," Adrian said before he could catch himself. His eyes widened as he realized he'd said too much. Stottlemeyer stared at him. "How'd you know about that?" he asked.

"Um, uh, I, uh, read about it in the paper, how they'd be filming here in town," Adrian told him quickly, "Ambrose had the, um, copy when I, uh, went to see him earlier."

He was relieved to see that Stottlemeyer apparently accepted this explanation. "Anyway, if you could testify for me, Monk, I'd greatly appreciate it," the captain told the detective.

"Why me, captain?" Adrian had to know, "I'd rather not be pulled into this, honestly."

"Trust me Monk, I'd rather not drag you into it either, but I need someone who's honest in my corner, and you are that man," Stottlemeyer told him, "Now do we have a deal?"

He gave Adrian a look that made the detective's willpower wilt. "Yeah, sure, I guess," he said weakly, wondering how he'd ever gotten into such a tight spot in the first place.

"Thanks Monk, I knew I could trust you," the captain patted him on the back, "You a good man. I'll let you know the fine details once I work it out. The two of them won't know what hit them once you get through—of course, the whole court can probably say that when you get through, but that's not important now."

And with that he walked off before Adrian could say anything else. The detective stared glumly out toward the bay, wondering how he was going to get through the case in one emotional piece.


	8. Dr Kroger's Advice

The clock read well past three in the morning. Despite this, and also in spite of the loud music coming once again from the apartment overhead, Adrian was vacuuming his rug for what had to have been the third time that evening. He moved with extreme care along the diagonal lines, stopping only when he reached the wall. His mission complete again, he reached for a bottle of window cleaner on the coffee table.

"Adrian, why are you doing this to yourself?" came a familiar voice form behind him. Adrian turned to see his wife had arrived again. "I, I can't help it," he admitted, putting down the bottle, "I just don't………feel right. It's just that………he trusts me so much. I feel like I'm letting him down keeping it from him. I, I hope you don't think less of me for it."

"I would never think any less of you," she gave him a reassuring look of sympathy, "Now why don't you go to bed, Adrian? You've got a lot to do tomorrow."

Adrian looked deep into her eyes. Convinced, he flicked off the lights and trudged into his bedroom and pulled down the covers on his bed very slowly so they remaining perfectly even. "Tell me," he blurted out as he plopped down on what had been his side of the bed, "Did you still love John Schmidt towards the end? Every time you'd mention his name, you'd get this look that………."

"Adrian, please don't think of these things," she told him, "You were and are the only one that mattered to me. Don't let these things go through your mind; you need all the rest you can."

She reached for the light switch. There was a low zapping sound as the light went out, and Adrian abruptly found himself all alone again. "Trudy?" he called out, but there was no response. Sighing, he groped for the light bulb and discovered it had burnt out. He slumped back on the bed and tried to block out the earsplitting music from above, not feeling better at all.

* * *

"I think about it a lot of the time, actually," the detective was relating the following morning as he gazed blankly out his psychiatrist's office window, "But now more than ever."

"I see," Dr. Charles Kroger leaned forward in his seat across from Adrian, "So you're convinced Trudy still loved this John Schmidt?"

"I just know it deep down," Adrian nodded softly, "Really, I'm surprised sometimes we even lasted seven years. I know I got on her nerves a lot, and I wouldn't have blamed her if she had left."

"Well Adrian, the fact is Trudy DID stay," Dr. Kroger reminded him, "That should tell you something about yourself right there, that she could overlook whatever she may have found wrong with you and see the good man inside."

"Perhaps," Adrian rose up and started rearranging the cushions on his armchair for no apparent reason, "But I know I get to people a lot; I don't like making people mad or uncomfortable."

"Again, Adrian, you're only looking at the bad in yourself," his psychiatrist said, squinting his eyes shut in slight discomfort of his own as his client strode over and fiddled with a button on his sweater than he'd missed, "I think it's time you looked more at the positives in your life; you'll find you'll be a lot happier if you do."

He glanced at his watch before continuing, "So, while we still have time today, you said you were worried about Captain Stottlemeyer?"

"Of course I'm worried about him," Adrian shook his head, "He was there for me when I needed help, he was almost like a second brother, and now I feel like I'm letting him down by not letting on to him what I know about this case. But at the same time, I can't tell him, because I just know he'll make things worse on himself."

"So what makes you sure he would explode if it turns out that Karen did in fact kill Arthur Schmidt?" Dr. Kroger inquired.

"You've seen the man," Adrian rose again and walked over to the window, but apparently decided against whatever he'd been planning on doing and sat down again, "He's like the Pacific Rim when he feels he's been crossed, and right now it's not even a good idea to even mention Karen's name in his presence. He's completely convinced she's out to run him completely into the ground with this whole thing."

"And what do you think?" his psychiatrist had to know, "You said you had been to a few of the hearings, after all."

"Well," Adrian took a very long breath, "I think a couple of the things her attorney said about the captain were up to 9.7 percent inflated from the truth, but I wouldn't really call the outright lies. Right now, though, I think it's just best to keep the two of them apart. I've never seen two people more at odds with each other than they are, and I've seen some nasty relationships in my time. And lately," he hung his head, "I can't help thinking how it might have been different if I had agreed to follow………"

"Adrian, Adrian, this is also something you shouldn't guilt trip yourself on," Dr. Kroger told him, "They would have divorced whether or not you'd been tailing Karen that time. Now if you want my advice, I think you would do well explaining to one or both of them how their actions make you feel. There's no need for you to feel like you're suffering for their conflict. Telling……….."

"Just, just a minute," Adrian rose yet again and straightened out the photographs of Dr. Kroger's family on his desk so they were in a perfectly straight line. "Anyway," the psychiatrist couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes, "I also understand you've consulted a bit with your brother on this case, and he seems to be a little jealous?"

"I really don't see what he has to be jealous about, really," Adrian said, "He doesn't have to worry about roving germs on the street and narrow elevators and milk on the shelves of every store and………"

"I hate to rush, Adrian, but we are at two minutes remaining in this session," Dr. Kroger reminded him.

"Right," Adrian nodded, "Ambrose, well, he wants to call into the Crimestoppers line. Plus, I think he's disappointed the script about my life was changed to a television format; Benjy had written him in as a major character in its movie version."

"And how do you feel about this?" Dr. Kroger inquired.

"He knows I have a promise to Trudy that I'd solve every case I could," Adrian told him, "He knows how important doing what I do is to me. And he shouldn't worry about the show; if it's a hit, they'll get around to when I got back with him in due time; shouldn't take much longer than the third season if they start where I got back on my feet."

"Well, Adrian, you have to realize that Ambrose has a lot to be envious of with you," Dr. Kroger pointed out, "You've done so much that he probably feels a bit insignificant stuck inside his house the whole time. If you ask me, I think it wouldn't hurt a bit to step back from Crimestoppers for just one week and give him a chance to make his own difference in the world. After all, the………"

"Trouble," Adrian rose to his feet, a dark look on his face.

"What is it now, Adrian?" his psychiatrist had to know.

"I can sense him, he's doing it again," Adrian strode for the door, knowing that the hour was up and he could. Sure enough, his intuition had been right; a familiar figure was hunching over the bulletin board in the lobby, pinning up memos. "Hold it right there, you!" Adrian barreled over the board, causing Harold to turn with a loud hiss, "These belong in chronological order, not this way!"

"Oh no they don't!" Harold shouted at him, "They belong in ALPHABETICAL order, like so!"

"That does it, you're insane, no ifs ands or buts about it!" Adrian snatched the last memo out of Harold's hand. He reached for others, only to have Harold push his hand away and seize the memo. The two of them struggled for control of it before Dr. Kroger rushed over and placed himself between them. "Adrian, Harold, this is no place for fighting!" he told them calmly but firmly, "Now I want you two to take nice, deep, relaxing breaths."

"Look at what he's done!" far from relaxed, Adrian pointed at the bulletin board as if it were a volcano about to erupt, "He wrecked the memos! Make him put then back in chronological order where they belong!"

Dr. Kroger ignored this request completely. "Harold, it's time for your session now," he told his other patient. Harold eagerly trotted after him toward the office, turning just before he entered it to sneer at Adrian, "By the way, he invited me to his son's birthday next week."

"You……..!!!!" Adrian lunged at the door just before it closed. "All right buster, you want total war, you'll get total war!" he shouted at it, "From now on, it's no mercy!"


	9. Mr Monk is Very Worried

"Anything at all?" Natalie asked Adrian as he ever so carefully looked through the newspaper Ambrose had given him back at the precinct. 

"Nothing we don't already know," Adrian shook his head, "I've looked through about four…"

He abruptly trailed off as he turned the page and stared at a photograph in the upper left corner. "Wait a minute," he said as he stared intently at it, "This is Arthur Schmidt's car here that got wrecked."

"It is?" Natalie leaned over his shoulder and stared at it herself, "How are you sure?"

"I recognized his license plate when the tow truck drove it by the apartment the night he was killed," Adrian pointed at it, "And that's Schmidt on the ground here," he pointed next at a barely discernable shape near the large dented section of the car that had apparently just been hit, "He must have leaped out of the way before the accident. And look at this car," he gestured at a dark blob pulling around the corner at the top of the photograph, "This is his wife's car."

"Where?" Disher had approached.

"Right here," Adrian pointed it out for him. The detective made some obtuse gestures. "Here's what happened," he breathed, "Schmidt's wife tried to kill him here and failed. She tried to run him down in the street."

"So it was her who killed him in the end as well, then?" Disher asked him. Before Adrian could say anything else, however, an old woman came striding up. "Excuse me!" she snapped at the lieutenant after whacking him on the shoulder, "I've been waiting for someone to talk to me for six hours!"

"Oh, um, right," Disher quickly produced a notepad and pencil, "Um, what seems to be the problem, Miss…?"

"Esther Hollway," she barked at him, "I filed a complaint for stolen property two days ago, and no one's bothered to follow up on it!"

"OK, um, so what was stolen?" the lieutenant inquired.

"I came home from bowling night Saturday night and found my house had been broken into," Hollway told him, "Two oxygen tanks and my vacuum cleaned right out! I don't know how much they pay you people to patrol the streets, but it's clearly not enough to make you try…!"

"One, one moment,," Adrian held up his hand, "Mrs. Hollway, do you by any chance live on front Street by that old refrigerator warehouse?"

"Yeah, about five blocks away," she told him, "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Um, we have a feeling these thefts might be connected with a murder," Natalie told her. She glanced at Adrian, "Right?"

"It could be," her employer made some more gestures, "We know that whatever killed Schmidt was fired at high speed. Compressed oxygen could provide that speed."

"But what could they use that vacuum tube for?" Disher pondered.

"Probably to connect to the rifles, I guess," the detective said, "What concerns me more is what exactly was used to kill Schmidt. And who else was in that warehouse with Schmidt and the murderer?"

"And what why would the murderer stoop to petty theft to get what he needed?" Disher asked, "He'd be taking a risk trying to break into someone's house."

"Why don't you do some actual police work and try and find out!" Hollway whacked Disher in the shoulder again.

"Right, uh, of course, uh, why don't you come with me and we'll file out a report?" rubbing his shoulder, Disher led her off. No sooner had he left than Stottlemeyer approached. "Good news, Monk," he told his go-to guy, "We're bringing in that James Marshall guy you said might be suspicious for questioning. If he's guilty we'll get something out of him here and now. You got anything else?"

"Maybe," Adrian related to him what he'd learned in the last few minutes. Stottlemeyer nodded once he was done. "Well, since we still have an excess of suspects here, we'd better start narrowing things down a bit," the captain remarked, "Later tonight let's go check out the Hong Yong Kitchen and see if Schmidt Junior and Hallett could have gone from…"

"Sir, here's Marshall," called an officer from the door to the bullpen. He was leading in an impeccably dressed man who immediately made swiping motions at the nearest desk. That's not clean at all!" he told the officer seated behind it, "I demand you clean it up."

"Hello Jimmy," Stottlemeyer strolled over to him, "So nice of you to drop by. I hear you're one of a load of people who hated Arthur Schmidt."

"You haven't bathed today, have you?" Marshall stared right at the captain, "I can tell when someone hasn't bathed. I don't like being in the same room with people who don't wash regularly."

Stottlemeyer looked slowly back and forth between the suspect and Adrian. "Don't you worry Jimmy, this'll be over very quickly if you'll just cooperate with us," he told him.

"Oh I think it's going to be over quicker than that," Marshall gave the captain a strange look as he was led toward the interrogation room. Adrian flinched as he took in this look. "What?" Natalie had noticed this reaction.

"Karen," Adrian breathed softly, "She knows he's here." He glanced up at the clock, "The captain's got five minutes at most to get any confession."

He rushed toward the observation window to the interrogation room, his assistant hot on his heels. "Wait, so what you're saying is the two of them may be in it together?" she had to know.

"They know each other quite well," Adrian told her, but did not elaborate. Inside the interrogation room, Stottlemeyer had a stern look on his face as Marshall wiped at the table. "You haven't dusted in here in a long time, have you?" he told the captain.

"Jimmy, have a seat," Stottlemeyer pushed him down into the chair and started pacing around the table, "You'll be out of here in five minutes if you can just tell me where you were Saturday night at eight."

"I was on the ferry back from Alcatraz," Marshall protested, "My family can vouch for it. Now if you don't mind, I have a very busy schedule to…"

"Not right now you don't," Stottlemeyer gleamed triumphantly, "The ferry to Alcatraz doesn't run that late, Jimmy. Now if you don't mind, I'd like the truth this time. You can't deny you were upset with Schmidt for firing you, so you lured him to the warehouse and you killed him, am I getting warm?"

"I'm not saying another word until my attorney gets here!" Marshall folded his arms across his chest defiantly, "Which should be any minute now."

"Oh I think you're going to speak again long before…" Stottlemeyer started to say as he leaned toward his suspect menacingly. It was then that the moment Adrian had been afraid of occurred: the door to the interrogation room swung open and Maximilian J. Tepperman, attorney at law, sauntered confidently in. The captain's expression turned absolutely murderous at the sight of the newcomer. "What do you think you're doing here, Tepperman?" he growled darkly.

"Like I said, I'm not saying anything till my lawyer's here, and now he's here," Marshall rose up again, "I'm dying in here, Max; too much dust."

"No problem at all, James," Tepperman reassured him, "You won't have to stay here any longer."

"Listen to me Tepperman," Stottlemeyer shouted at him, "This man is a possible murderer! If you pull another trick of yours to let him walk…!"

"When you had no real case against him in the first place?" Tepperman told him smarmily. The lawyer dug a piece of paper from his coat pocket and slapped it into Stottlemeyer's palm, "Writ of release, read it and weep. You're not to come after Mr. Marshall again, or there'll be a very stiff penalty waiting for you. And in case you need reminding, your first payment under Judge Lawrence's recent decision is due in a week, or you'll have to pay double the payment sum the next time around. Come on James, let's get you home where you belong."

He led a smiling Marshall out of the interrogation room. For a moment Stottlemeyer just stared after the two of them. Then, as Adrian and Natalie continued watching, he absolutely snapped. He flipped the table over in a rage, smashed one chair against the floor, and hurled another toward the window. The two of them ducked as it cracked the glass with a loud crash. "Actually, maybe we'd better given him some private time," the detective told her quickly, his hand over his face, "This could take a while."

"Tell me about it," Natalie was equally upset over the captain's actions as they scurried away back to Disher's desk. It was about ten minutes later that Stottlemeyer reemerged, still looking enraged. "Did you two see what happened there?" he asked them between aggravated breaths.

"Uh, yes," Adrian shook his head, "I, I saw everything. Not good at all. Let me just say…"

"If I find out who sent that creep to bail him out," the captain interrupted him, "There's going to be hell to pay like you can't believe! He's not going to be able to handle jaywalking cases in this city when I get through with him for this!"

"But what if it's not Marshall?" Adrian had to ask him, "I'm not sure yet that…"

"You were there Monk; he was covering something up!" the captain pointed out. He held up the writ Tepperman had given him and tore it up. "And I don't give a damn what that big shot says, I'm going to get to the bottom of this whole thing and nail Marshall to the wall no matter what it takes! I'll see you at five, Monk; we'll go check out that restaurant theory then. In the meantime, I have some stuff I need to take care of!"

He stormed off, kicking hard the wastebasket next to the nearest desk and sending it flying. Adrian grimaced as garbage flew everywhere. As if things were bad enough….

* * *

It was several hours later that Adrian sat hunched over his desk back at his apartment, clippings and photos of Trudy's murder laid out before him. He often went over the case again when he had spare time, and until the others came to pick him up to go to the restaurant, he had that time (Natalie was picking Julie up at school for the day at the moment, thus giving him more time on his own). He stared intently at several blown-up photographs of the exploded car, trying to find some subtle clue that he hadn't noticed before over the years. None appeared to be forthcoming, however. He sighed in sadness. He'd solved dozens of cases over the years at a single glance, but he couldn't get a break on the one that mattered most to him if his life depended on it…

He was so wrapped up examining the evidence, in fact, that he initially did not hear the door to his apartment open. Thus, he jumped rather high in shock when he heard the floorboards creak directly behind him. "WHO….?" he cried out in surprise.

"Will you calm down, Monk?" it was Linda. The realtor laid down the briefcase she was carrying on his desk and stared out one of the newspaper clippings. "Hard at work, I see?" she inquired.

"Very," Adrian nodded, "Tell me, Linda, do you always just walk into places you want to go without knocking?"

"Do you always leave your door unlocked at all hours of the day?" she countered. Her gaze returned to the nearest picture of Trudy. "I remember when it happened," she told the detective, "I read her columns a lot. It's shame they still haven't caught the son of a…"

There came another major blast of heavy metal from the apartment overhead. "Will you please turn it off you sons of…!" she screamed up at the ceiling, only to be further drowned out by an even louder burst of music.

"They won't, they never have since they got here!" Adrian shouted over the din, "I can't believe I'm actually wishing for Kevin Dorffman to be around again!" Once the music finally died down again, he turned to his visitor and inquired, "So, I suppose you do actually have a reason to be here?"

"I'll be going off to a conference in San Luis Obispo for the next two days," Linda leaned against the wall, "Don't really want to, but the damn state board, the sons of…"

Yet another blast of music cut her off again. Rolling her eyes, she waited until it was over yet again before continuing, "Anyway, I need a favor of you while I'm gone, Monk."

"More favors?" Adrian sighed.

"I want you to take care of Leland while I'm gone," she told him, deep concern creeping onto her face, "He's really been up in arms about his ex lately, and I'm worried he's going to do something he'll regret. Just this afternoon he was going on over the phone about how he thinks she's using her lawyer to interfere in his cases now."

"It, it could actually be a little worse than that," Adrian shook his head, "I can't tell you about it, it's sort of confidential, but I'm just as worried about him as you are, believe me."

He glanced at the largest portrait of Trudy hanging on the wall. "Rage is strange," he mused out loud, "It can get you through the hardest times by giving you thoughts of justice against the people you think have wronged you, but too much of it can turn you into someone else, someone you don't like when you look closer. Rage was all that kept me going when I lost Trudy. I wanted the heads of the people responsible. Trudy kept me from getting out of control. The captain," he sighed deeply, "He doesn't have that crutch. Not anymore."

"When my husband walked out on me, I wanted his blood more than anything, "Linda confided in him, "Then I realized that just because he was a son of a…" After yet another blast of music interrupted her again, she continued, "Just because he ran me into the ground didn't give me the right to spill his blood back. That would make me no better than him. Revenge only gets more revenge. Unfortunately, I don't think Leland's learned that all just yet. So I need you to promise to make sure he doesn't go off the edge somehow while I'm out, Monk. I don't want to lose him, not yet."

"I'm sure you don't," Adrian commented. Sometimes, he thought, it seemed Linda cared for Stottlemeyer a little TOO much, in particular since she seemed to know more about the captain after knowing him for only a few months than Adrian himself did after over fifteen years.

A loud beeper went off. "Son of a…!" Linda groaned out loud before the music upstairs started up yet again and drowned the end of her sentence out again, "I told them thirty minutes! Anyway, I'm going to miss my ride if I don't go now, Monk, but do I have your word?"

"I can't make any promises, Linda, but I'll do my best for the captain," Adrian told her.

"Then I'll see you in two days or so," the realtor retrieved her briefcase and gave the detective what probably passed as a smile for her before walking out the door. The moment she was gone, Adrian walked over to his closet, pulled out his vacuum, and started vacuuming along the rug's diagonal lines; he didn't trust leaving it go when people with alien footwear tramped around on the carpet. Once he was sure everything was clean, he trudged over to the wall and stared at the picture of Trudy he'd focuses on earlier. "What am I getting myself into?" he asked her sadly, "There's no way I can keep this promise. He's going to find out what we're keeping from him eventually, and then, like he says, there's going to be hell to pay for all of us. All of us."


	10. The Secret is Out

"What is all of this?" Natalie exclaimed in surprise. Adrian was rolling an entire rack full of suitcases out of his apartment.

"I have to come prepared," he told her, wheeling it towards Stottlemeyer's car at the corner, "You know how these restaurants mess things up; I intend to come prepared."

Natalie shook her head but decided not to say anything. Adrian opened the car's trunk and loaded his belongings inside. "Evening Monk," an incredulous but resigned Stottlemeyer greeted him when he climbed into the car himself, "Nice to know you're prepared if World War III breaks out in the next couple of hours."

"Are you feeling any better Captain?" Adrian had to ask.

"I'm happy to say yes, because just as I was coming here to get you, this came over my voice mail," Stottlemeyer pressed the button on his cell phone for the message. "Hello, Captain Stottlemeyer?" came a nervous voice that was definitely Marilyn Schmidt's, "There's something I have to tell you. Meet me at the Hong Yong at six thirty, and I'll tell you what happened to Arthur."

"Incredible Natalie mused as they pulled out into traffic.

"Almost too incredible," Adrian was somewhat suspicious, "Incredible she'd know we were going to the Hong Yong anyway. It seems too convenient."

"Or it could be the big break we were waiting for," Stottlemeyer said with deep hope, "The sooner we close this one the better; the press and the mayor have been all over me on this one, and Lord knows I've got enough to worry about right now as it is."

He gripped he fingers hard on the steering wheel as he said this. Adrian shook his head softly. He prayed that Schmidt's widow would close the case as well, and that she wouldn't finger Karen as the killer.

They arrived at the Hong Yong Kitchen about fifteen minutes later. The receptionist on duty, a prim-looking Asian woman, did a double-take in surprise upon seeing the detective wheeling his rack into the restaurant. "Excuse me sir," she asked, walking in front of him, "What is all this?"

"Um, don't, don't take this too hard," Adrian told her, "You, you probably know the state health inspector gave this restaurant a B rating," he pointed at the card in the front window, "I can't, I can't in good conscience...what I'm saying is...I, I have to bring my own food with me."

"I'm sorry sir, but if you want to eat here, you'll have to have what's on our menu," she told him.

"You sure?" the detective frowned, "I mean, it's no..."

"Four of us at the table nearest the door you've got," Stottlemeyer pushed the rack to her, "Is the owner in?"

"Um, no, he's out on family business at the moment," the receptionist told him, "Why?"

"Police business," the captain flashed her his badge, "We'd like a word with him when he gets back; we need to know about some people who were here a few nights ago. And don't lose anything on this rack, or my friend here might just kill all of us."

"Irving, four here," the receptionist called to the nearest waiter. Adrian drew the topmost suitcase off the rack as they were led to their table and opened it to reveal cleaning utensils. Once they were there, he waved for everyone to stand back while he set about cleaning the tabletop...and the booth's seats...and the floor underneath the table...and the window next to it...and arrange the placemats and untensils so their formed a perfect square on the tabletop. It was about ten minutes after this began that he nodded and finally sat down. "I, I really don't need one," he told the waiter as he was handed a menu, "I'm, I'm not going to eat anything."

"Mr. Monk, it's not going to kill you to try something new for once," Natalie told him, "You just might like what they have here."

"I might, but I sincerely doubt it," he told her, "And please don't invoke your Grandpa Neville to make me, or I just might dig him up and kill him...again."

"Sir, you will have to order something if you want to stay here," the waiter informed him.

"Just pick something, Monk, anything," Stottlemeyer handed him his menu. Adrian reluctantly scanned it over. "Uh, I guess I'll take...no, that's not going to...I'll have...no I won't...I think..."

"Four number sixes," Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes and snatched the menu back, "And make sure you cook it as well as you can."

"I, I can go into the kitchen with you and verify you're giving me a full-cooked meal," Adrian told the waiter, who did not respond as he shook his head and walked off, "In fact, I should probably inspect the whole kitchen while I'm at it, just to be absolutely sure everything here's kosher."

Without warning, he drew another wipe and started wiping at the floor again. "Uh, I think it's clean by now, Monk," Disher told him.

"Just want to make sure," Adrian said. It was another two minutes before he popped up again looking content. "Now, now we're good," he told everyone.

"Anyway, back on Planet Earth," Stottlemeyer announced wearily, "Hopefully they'll be able to tell us exactly when Schmidt Junior and Hallett were in here so we can know exactly where they were at what times."

"And then we concentrate on what else makes no sense yet," Adrian added, "What exactly was used to kill Arthur Schmidt? We know the killer stole Esther Hollway's vacuum and oxygen tanks to create a high pressure firing device for the rifles he had, but what did he load them with? No bullet casings, no blades, no nothing at the crime scene. And there were no paint flecks from his gloves on the floor, so he didn't pick anything up afterwards. And who else was...?"

The sound of the restaurant's gong ringing cut him off. There was loud applause as a man in a sparkling red suit with a microphone in hand entered the dining area. "Well folks, it's six thirty, and as you know, all March long, it's Hong Yong Karaoke time!" he proclaimed, "Tonight, we're going to start off with...you, sir, what's your name?"

Adrian found the microphone shoved right into his face. He gulped nervously. "I'm, I'm...Adrian, Adrian Monk," he whimpered in a very low whisper, "And I...I...I'm Adrian Monk."

"Well Adrian, what song would you like to sing for everyone here?" the man asked him.

"Uh,..." Adrian felt every eye in the restaurant boring into him. He swayed in discomfort, "Ac, Actually, I'm...can I pass? I'm not really a singer at all."

"Come on, Adrian," the man goaded him, "Any tune will do."

Adrian gulped again. Weakly, he leaned toward the microphone. "I love you baby," he sang very softly and nervously, "I want to twist with you all night. I...really need you, you...uh...turn me on like a light. And we'll...go swim with the mermaids all day, and...eat...a big plate of hay...heeeeeeeey, Maccaroni...anyone know how the rest of it goes?"

Every single person in the restaurant was confused beyond belief. "OOOOOOOK, moving right along...," the man with the microphone moved to the next table. No sooner had he left than the waiter arrived with their meals. "Four number sixes," he announced, setting their dishes before them.

"Um...?" Adrian frowned at his meal, which did not look the leastbit kosher by his definition of the word.

"Never hurts to try, remember?" Natalie whispered in his ear. Adrian shrugged, lifted his fork (after wiping it down to get rid of any germs that might have been left their by its previous user) and hesitantly took a bite from the plate. "Hey, you know, this really isn't half bad," he admitted, his expression relaxing. He took several more bites and actually smiled. "See, if you just learn to trust people," his assistant patted him on the back, "you'll find you'll like a lot of things."

"Even bird's nest casserole," Disher innocently remarked.

"WHAT!?" Adrian's yelp caused everyone in the restaurant to turn towards him again. What they saw this time was the detective jumping up and hopping around as if he were on fire. "Quick, call the paramedics!" he screamed at the waiter, "I need a stomach pump and an intestine transplant A.S.A.P.!"

"Sir, if you'll just relax..." the waiter tried to tell him.

"Relax!?" Adrian continued panicking, "I'm very relaxed right now! I'm about as relaxed as they come! You haven't even come close to seeing me panic! Captain, arrest this man for endangering the public with this thing!"

Before Stottlemeyer could say anything, there came the ringing of the bells above the front door as another customer came in. This time, however, this sound was accompanied by that of a woman screaming from the alley next to the restaurant. "Marilyn Schmidt," Adrian realized once the scream had made him stop panicking.

"Our confession..." Stottlemeyer realized he probably wasn't going to get it. The four of them bolted from their seats, leaving the waiter to call after them, "Hey, who's paying for all this? You owe thirty bucks!", and barrelled out the door and into the alley. Their fears were immediately confirmed: Arthur Schmidt's widow lay face down in the middle of the alley with a knife in her back. "Police, stop!" Stottlemeyer shouted at a shadowy figure disappearing around the alley's far corner. He took off in pursuit. His associates filed around the body. "Well, at least there's one less suspect out there now," Natalie remarked, shaking her head.

"I knew it wasn't going to be that easy," Adrian sighed, swaying hard from side to side due to the open dumpster not more than three feet away from the corpse.

"Uh guys, better take a look at this," with a worried look on his face, Disher held up a piece of paper that had been lying on Marilyn's back. Written on it in pen was the message:

WIFE OF PIG IS DEAD,

JUSTICE IS COMPLETE

K.S.

The three of them exchanged uneasy glances. None of them needed to say out loud what K.S. presumably stood for. Disher quickly shoved the note into his tuxedo pocket as Stottlemeyer came running back up. "Lost him," the captain grumbled, "He's probably halfway across the city by now. Lieutenant, call the forensics crew; maybe we can get the prints on the knife."

"They won't find any, Captain," Adrian squatted down as far as he dared, given that there was a large amount of standing water around the body, which also unnerved him, "There's more paint flecks from a glove here."

"Same gloves her husband's murderer used, Monk?" Stottlemeyer inquired.

"Yes, Captain, the same."

"All right, I'll go have Marshall picked up again," the captain said.

"But what if it's not him?" the detective pointed out, "We don't have complete proof on him yet."

"Unless he's working in tandem with someone," Disher suggested, "He could have been hired by John Schmidt or Hallett or Karen or someone we don't..."

"What?" Stottlemeyer spun towards him, "What was that?"

"Uh..." Disher turned pale as he realized he'd just given away the forbidden information. He glanced at Adrian and Natalie for any assistance in getting out of the jam. Seeing that none was forthcoming, for they were just as surprised at the abrupt revelation as he was, he stammered, "I, um, uh, said, er, um, Marin...yeah, uh, Schmidt might have had a contact up in Marin County, uh, yeah, someone who..."

"Randall Disher, you said Karen," Stottlemeyer leaned in very close to him, "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"


	11. Stottlemeyer Vs Stottlemeyer

Adrian swayed uncomfortably from side to side back at the precinct as Stottlemeyer slowly and silently looked over the evidence they had collected for the case but had not shown him--including the report placing Karen's fingerprints on the rifles and the note found on Marilyn Schmidt's body. The ride back from the restaurant had been a very slow and silent one, and he hadn't liked the look in the captain's eyes during the trip at all.

Finally Stottlemeyer looked up from his desk. "And you all decided to just keep this information from me?" he asked the three of them.

"Look, Captain, we all thought it would be in your best interest," Natalie tried to explain, "The way things have been lately..."

"It would be in my best interest to withhold evidence that could have busted this case wide open before the press jumped up on my back?" the captain rebuffed her.

"Well, the crew insists she was on the set at the time of the murder," Disher told him, "We don't really have much more that can tie her to..."

"Were their statements about that on the record?" Stottlemeyer had another dark look in his eye now, one that gleamed of triumph.

"Uh, well, not, not exactly, but..."

"Then I suggest you go track them down and put her exact location that night in concrete," his superior informed him. When Disher initally did nothing, he added, "That is an order, Lieutenant. Go find them."

"If you say so sir," looking upset at the way events had turned, Disher scurried out the door. Stottlemeyer approached Adrian. "Monk, come with me," he told him, "We're going to take a little ride downtown."

"Do we have to, Captain?" Adrian whimpered. He was truthfully scared by the way his boss looked now.

"I need you, Monk," Stottlemeyer told him, "We are going to put everything in it's place before this night's over, so let's get it over with now."

"Captain if you please..." Natalie tried to intercede again.

"We have to do this," the captain told her, adding when she reluctantly reached for her cars keys, "No. Just Monk and me are going. I don't want you tangled up in this."

"What are you thinking about doing?" she inquired, "Captain, please, don't, it's a mistake!"

But Stottlemeyer wasn't listening. He was half-dragging Adrian toward the elevator. Adrian glanced over his shoulder and sadly mouthed toward Natalie, "_It was nice knowing you_."

* * *

"Please, Captain, I'm begging you one last time," the detective was still pleading as the two of them walked up the driveway to Karen's house, "You're not thinking this through rationally."

Stottlemeyer spun to face him. "Monk," he said softly, "Everything you've got points to her. I am not going to let her get away scott-free if she killed Arthur Schmidt."

"I know what you're thinking," Adrian tried to tackle the problem from another angle, "You're thinking this will get even with her if you can get her for this. I'm not convinced she did it; there's still too many questions about the case. You'll only makes things worse if you go ahead and enter that house right now; you don't know what you're doing!"

"I'm perfectly aware of what I'm doing, Monk," Stottlemeyer growled, his expression uglier than ever. He held up the search warrant he'd managed to procure. "All I need from you is to do your thing and find the one piece of evidence that's going to seal the deal here."

He strode hard up to the door before Adrian could say anything else and rang the doorbell repeatedly. Karen opened the door a crack. "I have nothing to say to you," she told him darkly and tried to close the door. Stottlemeyer stuck his foot in the door. "Well I have a few things to say to you," he retorted, "Open the door, Karen."

"The judge told you very clearly you were not to come into this...!" she started to say.

"I've got a search warrant," he held it up, "I know what's been going on. If you don't let me in, you'll be breaking the law."

"Just, please just let him in, for a few minutes," Adrian begged over Stottlemeyer's shoulder, "There'll be less of a hassle if you'll just go along with this."

"I did not kill Arthur Schmidt, Leland," she told her ex firmly as she backed off the door and let him in, "And you," she pointed an accusing finger at Adrian, "I thought we had a promise you wouldn't say anything."

"It was the lieutenant, honest," Adrian told her weakly, turning away from the harsh glance his boss was giving him, "All right Monk, do your thing," Stottlemeyer told him.

"Uh,.." Adrian quickly turned around in a circle, "Nothing here. Oh well, we might as well go before..."

"Monk, do it for real!" the captain ordered him.

"Please Captain, don't make me!" he pleaded, "This is wrong, I tell you, it's dead wrong! We shouldn't be here!"

"Monk, I've got her prints on the murder weapon, I've got probable cause, what the hell more do you need!?" Stottlemeyer thundered. He spun toward Karen, "Would you like to explain why I might have this evidence while we're here?"

It was Karen's turn to look absolutely murderous. "How dare you even accuse me of that!?" she shouted at him, "If you think for one minute I would be capable of killing someone, then you've got a serious mental problem to go with your pitiful anger management skills."

"Where were you on the night of the murder, and tell me the truth," he asked as calmly as he could.

"I told Monk, I told the lieutenant, I was on the set filming my movie!" she bellowed, "And if you can't trust me,...!"

"If I can't trust you...?" Stottlemeyer let an angry laugh, "I can't trust you? When you've gone behind my back on so many things, I can't trust you? I'm telling you right now, I find you're withholding anything, I will have to prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law!"

"Can I just say something?" Adrian tried to cut in.

"Stay out of this, Monk!" both Stottlemeyers snapped at him simultaneously.

"Just thought I'd ask," he threw up his hands in defeat and prepared for the inevitable. "Karen, I know you hated Arthur Schmidt," her ex continued his offensive, "He was interfering in your big film, you wanted him off your back, so you and James Marshall decided to..."

"Don't you drag James into this, Leland!" she snarled, "He is a good and decent man, unlike SOMEBODY I happen to...!"

"We had him dead to rights in that interrogation room, and you let him walk!" he countered, "I know you sent Tepperman to bail him out! Here's what happened; the two of you got together on the set--I've got ample proof he had a big grudge against Schmidt as well--you both decided your lives would be happier without him, and you lured him to the warehouse, where the two of you...what are you doing?"

For Karen was now dialing the nearest phone. "Hello, state police?" she said to the other end, "Could you please send several units to 4224 Columbus Avenue right away? My ex-husband's here; he's threatening to kill me."

"What are you doing?" the captain was aghast.

"I warned you not to press your luck, Leland," she told him curtly, "Now if you want me to call them off, you'll take your worthless warrant and get off my property now!"

For a moment there was dead silence in the room. Then, much to Adrian's despair, his boss completely exploded. "No!" he roared, carnal rage contorting on his face. He stormed up to his ex and bellowed at the top of his lungs into her face, "I am not going to let you get away with this, not when I have a legal search warrant!"

He made the mistake of holding up the document, which Karen immediately snatched out of his hands and tossed into the fireplace, where it quickly burned up. "Now you don't," she told him off, "And you should have never gotten it in the first place. Now get out."

"I'm not going anywhere, woman!" Stottlemeyer yelled at her, "Not until you admit the truth that you killed Schmidt!"

Karen grabbed a camera tripod lying nearby. "I'll hit myself till I'm bloody and tell them you did it," she threatened him, "Unless you're out of my house in ten seconds!"

"That does it! I'm not a cop anymore!" Stottlemeyer removed his badge and tossed it to the floor. He leaned his chin close to Karen and made sweeping gestures, "Don't hold it back, go ahead and hit me! Come on, you want my blood!? You want my blood!? Go right ahead and spill it, because I'm tired of you taking potshots at me and hiding like a coward!"

"The only reason I tear you down, Leland, is because you misused our marriage from day one!" she barked, "You never trusted me for one minute, and you're suspicious of everything I do! Not to mention you're a menace to society!"

"Don't stop there!" he dared her, "I've taken every abuse imaginable from you over the years; give me all you got! It won't change the fact you're a lying, backstabbing weasel! And you know what else? YOU--ARE--A--TERRIBLE--DIRECTOR! That's right, you make the worst films imaginable!"

"And you are a disgrace to the badge!" she shouted back, "You harrass and intimate people left and right, just like you're doing now! I wouldn't be surprised if that dumb blond ends up in a pool of blood with...!"

"And in case we've forgotten, YOU manipulated me into helping to make your stupid cop documentary--with money _I_ earned, YOU kept tossing me out for no reason, and in the end YOU decided to just walk out on the marriage without bothering to hear me side of the matter!" Stottlemeyer now seemed almost demonic in his rage, "In fact, you never cared what I thought about anything, you ugly, narrow-minded...!"

"...vengeful, violent, arrogant...!" she was almost demonic as well.

"...dishonest, manipulative, ungrateful...!"

"...backstabbing, distrustful snake!"

"...scheming, hateful sack of horse...!:

"WOULD THE BOTH OF YOU JUST SHUT THE HELL UP!!!!?????" the words exploded from Adrian's mouth like a volcano erupting, causing both Stottlemeyers to turn in shock at their source. Glowering darkly, Adrian stormed over to the door and flung it wide open. "Come on in, boys," he proclaimed. For both the Stottlemeyers' sons stood on the porch, clearly having listened in on the entire argument (Adrian had heard the planks creaking for the last three minutes). Not surprisingly, it had clearly had a strong effect on them; Jared was giving both his parents a look of complete betrayal, while Max was in uncontrollable tears. Adrian dared to put his arm around them. "Now I want the both of you," he told their parents darkly, "To take a VERY good look at what you've done!"

Horror swept the captain's face at the sight of what he'd put his sons through. "Oh God, what is wrong with me!?" he lamented, slapping both hands over his face, "Why do I ALWAYS end up...!?"

The sound of wailing sirens filled the neighborhood, drowning him out. The next thing anyone knew, a dozen or so state troopers poured into the house with rifles raised. "Nobody move!" yelled the commander, brandishing his weapon high, "What's going on in here?"

"Oh thank God you're here, officer," Karen recovered first, "He was just about to start choking me." She pointed at Adrian. "Arrest him too."

"WHAT!!??" Adrian's jaw dropped like a rock.

"He's been stalking me under Leland's orders for the last six months," she told the troopers, "He's followed me home every single night."

"That was almost a year and a half ago!" the detective stammered incredulously, "I told you right away I was sorry I ever agreed to...not, not so tight with the cuffs!" he pleaded the trooper who was now handcuffing him, "These don't feel clean at all; when was the last time you washed these? I can't go to jail wearing these!"

There was a shoving sound from the doorway. Marshall appeared from among the troopers. "Karen, are you all right?" he immediately rushed towards her. He scowled toward Stottlemeyer. "So the maniac has returned. Did he harm you?"

"Oh James thank God you're here," Karen threw herself around him, "He was threatening to break every bone in my body."

Stottlemeyer's mouth hung wide open, but no sound came out. "Well don't worry, you're safe now, baby," Marshall swiped at some dust on the coffee table before embracing her completely. "He's never going to hurt you again, not when we get through with him."

"I never touched her or threatened to hit her," Stottlemeyer mumbled weakly.

"She told me lots of time since we met you've harrassed her ever since she left you," Marshall shoved a hand into the captain's chest, "Nobody makes up something like that. Especially given your reputation."

Stottlemeyer hung his head, realizing how deep a hole he'd dug himself into with his rage. "Monk's innocent," he told the officer handcuffing him, "Don't drag him through this."

"These are serious charges against him," the commander rebutted him, "The two of you are both in big trouble. Let's go."

The two men were hauled toward the door. Stottlemeyer looked back at his ex and her boyfriend. "How could you do this?" he asked loudly, but with hurt in his voice rather than anger.

"Because you're a menace, Leland," she told him without any hint of remorse for having made up the assault charges against him, "Now you'll never bother me again. What?" she snapped at her sons, noticing the harsh glares they were now giving her, "You heard some of the things he said! I have to do what's best for all of us, and right now this is what's best for him!"


	12. Mr Monk is Upset with the Captain

"Somebody, somebody definitely put this prison together all wrong," Adrian complained, tapping of the walls of the jail cell he and Stottlemeyer were being held in, "They put the bricks in the walls completely uneven. Just take a look, every other's completely off-kilter."

"I don't want to look, Monk," Stottlemeyer growled from his station by the cell's window. He was clutching the bars on the windows hard. "I just want to figure out how I'm going to get a court to convict those two for killing Schmidt now that they've got..."

"She didn't do it," Adrian spoke up. Stottleeyer spun around. "What?" he inquired.

"Karen did not kill anyone," the detective told him firmly, "There was a signed invoice for more film equipment on the coffee table; her handwriting doesn't match the note left on Marilyn Schmidt's body."

"No?" Stottlemeyer looked stunned, "What about Marshall, Monk?"

"You saw the man in the interrogation room; do you think he actually would have the ability to stand around in a filthy, dirt-ridden warehouse waiting for Arthur Schmidt to come in!?" Adrian found himself bellowing at his boss, "And I COULD have brought that up at Karen's if SOMEBODY hadn't completely gone insane!"

"Well, Monk, she was being completely evasive; how did I know she wasn't withholding evidence!?" Stottlemeyer shouted back, more out of surprise that Adrian of all people was yelling at him, "And don't tell me you support what she did to me--to us!"

"No, I don't, but that still doesn't excuse your conduct, Leland!" Adrian yelled, causing the captain to flinch in a major way; Adrian had almost never referred to him by his first name before. The detective set about straightening the sheets on both of the cells bunks before growling, "I hope you're proud of the fine example you've set for your children!"

"Well I'm sorry, Monk," Stottlemeyer groused, not sounding like he especially meant it, "I'm sorry things had to come to this, and I'd take it all back, but the fact is she threw the first punch, not to mention the last and worst one!"

Adrian gave him a hard glare that clearly telegraphed his opinion on this assessment: not even remotely good enough. Tremendous guilt swept Stottlemeyer's face. "Yeah, yeah, I have a lot to be sorry about, Monk," he whispered softly as he slumped down on the lower bunk, "You're right, I did get carried away. Did you see the looks on their faces, that...I just...I loved her, Monk, I loved her from day one, and all I got in return over all these years was verbal abuse and every single criticism in the book. I couldn't take it any more, not after being put through what I have in court..."

"So you thought if you could get her for this you'd get even for everything you think she's done against you," Adrian finished his thought for him, "You remember what happened last Christmas, Captain? We were all almost killed because somebody thought revenge would make everything right."

Stottlemeyer nodded, remembering that incident well. "You know what's going to happen now, don't you?" he mumbled, "The commissioner's going to file formal charges against us once this all goes through. We'll each be facing at least thirty years; I'll never see my kids again...how can I make it without...?"

He sniffed loudly but managed to keep from actually crying. Adrian stepped toward him. "If we just tell the truth," he said softly, "Things might not be as bad."

"What does it matter, Monk?" the captain grumbled, "Whatever Karen wants, Karen gets, and right now what she wants is our heads on a platter. The court'll believe anything she tells them about me."

"Not necessarily, Captain, if..."

"You see it all the time on television and film, Monk; as far as society's concerned, wives are above blame for anything," Stottlemeyer muttered, "Whereas every single problem a family has is the husband's fault. They're going to exploit it for all it's worth and make me out as monster, especially once they drag out that I hit that guy. They don't care about the truth; I'm the husband and I need to be made another example of."

Adrian had no response to this. There came the sound of footsteps from up the hall. "OK, Adrian Monk, your bail has been posted," announced the guard as he hefted his keys and unlocked the cell's door, "You're free to go for now. Not you," he told Stottlemeyer as the latter started following Adrian toward the door, "The department's ordering an inquiry; you're facing felony charges of assault. So no bail for you."

"He didn't hit Karen," Adrian told the guard as he stepped out of the cell and spun his neck in relieved circles; the cell had been too claustrophobic for his liking. "Could, could you get a cleaning crew in this cell soon; it clearly hasn't been washed in..."

"She claims he threatened to beat her; that qualifies as assault under the law," the guard informed him. A low and sad sigh came from Stottlemeyer. "Monk's innocent," he said, "Just drop whatever charges are against him and let him be." He glanced at the detective. "Thanks Monk, for what it's been worth."

"I'll have to tell the court that you were out of line at Karen's," Adrian told him firmly, "But hang in there. I'll try and finish this case."

"Not now you won't," the guard told him, "Commissioner's orders, you're not to handle any case until the inquiry's finished. Let's go."

It was Adrian's turn to sigh sadly. He trudged out toward the waiting area, where Natalie was waiting for him. "I posted it for you," she informed him, not sounding all that happy, "Two thousand dollars, which makes me wonder why every cent I make seems to go back into your..."

"Please, please, no griping now," Adrian grumbled, holding up his hand, "I'm not really in the mood. You've heard about everything, I guess?"

Natlaie nodded. "The captain was right about one thing, I'm glad I wasn't there," she commented, "Did he really...?"

"He never touched her or threatened to harm her," Adrian reiterated, "But he's right; it probably doesn't matter now. Unless we can talk sense into Karen about not pressing..."

"I already tried," his assistant sighed, "I stopped by her place once I heard; she opened the door a crack and told me I was a traitor too, and that she'd prosecute me as well if I didn't get off her property. Then she slammed the door in my face."

"Well, that's that, it's over, everything's over," Adrian put his face in his hands, "I failed."

* * *

"I failed, I completely failed," the detective was still lamenting by himself back at his apartment. He lay listlessly on the sofa, looking up into the vaporal face of Trudy's spirit. "Now Adrian, you did what you could," his wife's ghost tried to tell him.

"I promised Linda I wouldn't let anything happen to the captain, and I let her down," her husband grumbled, putting his hand over his face, "I let everyone down. Including him."

"Well I think what you did back there was very noble," she reassured him, stroking a hand through his hair, "That's what I appreciate about you, Adrian. What I still appreciate about you. You always know what's right."

"What good will that do me if I can't work on this case, on any case?" he reasoned. He glanced longingly up at her. "One, one thing now, I'll always appreciate what we had together even more," he told her, "Seeing how miserable everyone else I know have been there relationships. We were so lucky."

"I knew that from the day I met you," she told him, "I always told you to see the brighter side, Adrian. Even if the rest of the world is icy cold, there's always some degree of warmth to be found in..."

"Wait a minute," Adrian bolted upright, making hand gestures. A loud laugh escaped him. "Oh yes, yes, yes! Have I told you lately I love you?" he jubilantly told Trudy.

"Every day since I died," she was smiling, "You've got it, haven't you?"

"Of course I...oh, wait," Adrian expression fell as rapidly as it had risen, "I can't, I'm off the case, remember?"

"When you didn't do anything wrong in the first place?" she inquired, "That wouldn't stop the Adrian Monk I know."

Adrian looked her in the eye. Determination came over him. "Wish me luck, then," he told her.

"That's what I've always done," she patted him on the shoulder, "Go get them."

"Right," Adrian ran to the phone and dialed a familiar number. "Lieutenant, it's me," he told Disher on the other end, "I know who killed Arthur Schmidt and how they did it."


	13. Mr Monk Takes a Dive

Disher's car pulled up in front of Adrian's apartment as the sun started coming up. The detective walked briskly over and opened the back door. "Thanks for coming, lieutenant," he told him.

"You realize, Monk, that right now I could get in trouble if anyone knows I'm with you right now," Disher reminded him, "This'll be off the record as far as anything goes."

"But you will get the credit for the arrest," Natalie told him from the front passenger seat, looking quite excited despite the dark bags under her eyes from being up so early, "So who did it Mr. Monk?"

"Who was the person who stood to gain the most if Arthur Schmidt were dead?" Adrian posed to them, "and who was the last person to see him alive that we know of?"

"Hallett," Disher snapped his fingers, "Why didn't we see it sooner? But what did he use to kill him, Monk?"

"That's what Hallett was thinking as well," Adrian explained, "He didn't want anything traced to him, so he used something that couldn't be traced. Something that doesn't leave fingerprints. Something that would vanish the moment it was used."

"Vanish?" the lieutenant frowned, "Now what weapon would vanish when..."

"Ice," Natalie realized, "a sharp piece of ice. That's why he chose a refrigerator warehouse."

"Exactly," Adrian nodded, "He chose it very carefully. He knew a long piece of ice could cause fatal injuries to Schmidt. He cased the area first, so he knew Esther Hollway lived in the area, and that her personal possessions could help in creating his weapon of destruction. With her oxygen tanks and vacuum, he had a makeshift launcher. And he fixed one of the refrigerators so he could instantly freeze any water he could get. All he needed was something to fire the ice out of, and since the company was financing Karen's film, he knew he could get rifles there--and that Karen would be an easy suspect to take the fall for him. He hung around the set and when the opportunity came he stole the four of them. All he had to do then was call Schmidt and lure him to the warehouse. The ice nailed Schmidt in the chest and melted, leaving no murder weapon behind."

"I still don't understand how he set the whole thing up," Disher admitted.

"It worked like this," Adrian explained, "Hallett lowered the temperature in the warehouse so the ice would stay together when they were fired out of the rifle; it couldn't melt away until after it had inflicted maximum damage on Schmidt. Once he got the rifles, he filled them with water and froze it inside by sticking the freeze controls of the working refrigerator he fixed into the breeches. He probably filed off the end of the ice near the muzzles when this was done so they'd be lethally sharp. Then he hooked up the vacuum hoses to the oxygen tanks and attached them to the rifles. Once he turned the oxygen up full blast, he had the equivalent of air cannons at his disposal."

"OK," Disher nodded, "The only problem being it's going to be a little hard to this find this proof even with a search warrant."

"Well then, we'd better get going quick," Adrian said, "Because he could destroy the evidence at any minute."

* * *

Twenty minutes later Disher had the warrant. The lieutenant drove as fast as traffic would allow to Hallett's Pacific Heights manor. There was no response when he rang the doorbell. "He's not in," Adrian commented. 

"How can you tell?" Disher asked.

"There's some furniture missing inside, taken just recently," the detective was staring in the porch's front window, "He may have heard about what happened at Karen's last night and bolted. If he took the evidence with him..."

Disher took this as a cue to kick the door open and storm inside. "What are we looking for, Monk?" he asked rushing into the foyer.

"The rifles, the oxygen tanks, anything with his...oh great," Adrian squatted by the fireplace and stared at the ashes, "He burned the clothes he wore. Nothing's left."

"He burned them?" Natalie stared at the ashes herself.

"Schmidt attacked him after he shot with the ice," Adrian reminded her, "His blood would have been all over them. Hallett's smart, very smart." He then hurried over to the nearest trash can and withdrew with his tweezers a framed protrait with cracked glass. Underneath the glass was a cracked picture of Hallett with Marilyn Schmidt. "He was having an affair with her," the detective realized, "So he had double the reason to kill him."

"Guys, in here," Disher was now in the study, staring at a wide-open drawer on the large desk in the middle. Adrian ran in and stared into the open drawer. There was a layer of dried blood on top of several ledgers inside. "He had the pistol he shot Schmidt with in here," the detective announced.

"It looks like he had something in here too," Natalie had noticed a wide-open cabinet behind them as well. Sure enough, there were dust outlines inside that were undeniably those of oxygen tanks and what looks like rifle handles. Disher reached for his cell phone. "This is an all-points bulletin," he announced back to headquarters, "I want an arrest warrant for Mr. Nicolas Hallett; don't let him leave the city."

"He's at the harbor," Adrian was staring a painting over the mantle, showing Hallett standing on a yacht inscribed NICK'S FORTUNE, "Dock 34. He's going to sail down to Mexico; they can check the airports for him, but once he's off..."

"That's only about five minutes from here," Natalie realized, "If we hurry we might still get him in time, if he hasn't left yet."

"Not yet, but he will soon," Adrian was running out the door before he could elaborate. The three of them followed and peeled out into traffic. "But not, not that fast!" the detective complained, clutching the door handle hard.

"I have to if we want to catch him," Disher protested. Despite the brevity of the ride, it seemed to take an eternity for them to arrive at the harbor. "There," Adrian pointed once they pulled up to the dock in question. A very familiar figure was dragging a large shroud-covered object toward the yacht tied up at the end of the dock. Disher jumped out with his gun drawn. "Hallett, police, freeze!" he ordered.

"You freeze!" Hallett drew his own gun and pushed the evidence right up to the edge of the dock, "Or this vanishes forever!"

"Don't be rash, Hallett," Disher continued advancing toward him, "It's all over now. We know everything. Just put the evidence down."

"Put the evidence down?" Hallett sniggered, "If you say so."

And with that he dropped the guns and oxygen tanks into the bay. Adrian stared numbly as the only evidence that could convict Hallett sank slowly out of sight...

...and without warning jumped into the water after them. "Mr. Monk!" Natalie shrieked in shock. "Can he swim!?" she asked Disher in deep concern.

"I've never even seen him near a pool when he wasn't on drugs!" Disher started toward the edge of the dock, but Hallett jumped in front of him and held his gun in the lieutenant's face. "No one moves!" he warned him and Natalie, "Or you go with him!"

"He could drown!" she shouted.

"That's one less hassle for me then, isn't it?" Hallett cocked the gun and put his finger on the trigger. Then there came a loud splashing. "I've got it!" Adrian shouted from under the dock, straining to hold the evidence over his head.

"You've got it all right!" Hallett aimed at him. In a flash Disher jumped him from behind, knocked him down before he could fire, and ripped the gun out of his hands. "Nicolas Hallett, you're under arrest for two counts of premeditated murder," he told the man as he handcuffed him.

"I did it for Marilyn!" Hallett shouted in defense, "I loved her, Arthur didn't; it was a simple as that!"

"So you killed her because you loved her that much?" Natalie retorted, holding out her hand for Adrian as he scrambled back onto the dock with the evidence.

"She would have ruined it all!" Hallett moaned, "We would have been perfect, and she wanted out! So much for gratitude! So much for love!"

"Well you'll have a lot of time to talk about philosophy where you're going," Disher hauled him to his feet, "Let's go."

He led Hallett off toward their car. Adrian shook himself off and gestured for not one but the entire pack of wipes he knew was in Natalie's purse. "Remind, remind me never to do that again," he remarked, wiping himself off not just on the hands but all over.

"I can't believe you did that, Mr. Monk," she was impressed.

"Neither can I," he wiped in his hair as well, "I'm, I'm going to need at least a six hour shower after this."

"Well you've earned it now that the case is over and done with," she told him, "Thank God, too."

"No," Adrian said, prompting a surprised look from her, "This case isn't over with yet."


	14. Reconcilliation

And so it was soon thereafter that Adrian, with several policemen behind him, found himself ringing Karen's doorbell-with a wipe firmly over his finger. Marshall answered the door. "You again!" he snapped at the sight of Adrian and the police, "I'm warning you, leave Karen alone; she's been through enough!"

"This is only going to take a minute, Mr. Marshall," the detective informed him.

"A minute you're not getting," Marshall stared at Adrian's still wet tuxedo and stepped several feet backwards. "Where the hell have you been!?" he complained, looking repulsed, "You smell like the harbor!"

"Uh, yes, but let's, let's not go into that now," Adrian shifted uncomfortably, "Now I'd really like a word with Karen."

"The answer, pal, is...!"

"Please, let them in, James," came Karen's voice from behind him. The first thing Adrian immediately noticed was the dark circles under her eyes and the look of incredible guilt on her face. "Hello Karen," he greeted her slowly, "I want you to know we caught Nicholas Hallett. He's going to spend a long time in prison for killing Arthur Schmidt. In the meantime, this is Richard Lawton, the deputy city commissioner for internal affairs in the department," he gestured at the large heavyset man directly behind him, "He would be the person to look over the claims that the captain threatened you. Perhaps you would like to tell him while he's here with me what really happened last night-and why you decided not to tell anyone that you saw Hallett kill Schmidt."

Karen burst into tears. "She did?" Natalie exclaimed from the back of the crowd; Adrian had not fully explained the reason they had come to the house thus far.

"That's ridiculous!" Marshall snorted, "I talked to Karen that night; she was on the set for...!"

"You set the whole thing in motion, James," Adrian walked forward, prompting Marshall to step further backwards, "Ever since you and Karen met when you were assigned to the shoot, the two of you shared a dislike for Arthur Schmidt. Karen knew he was planning on pulling the plug on the picture; she wanted you to keep track of Schmidt for her so she could confront him when he was vulnerable and force him into backing off. You called Schmidt earlier in the day to set up the meeting on the set and drove to his house earlier in the evening to make sure he upheld his end of the bargain."

"Don't accuse me, Monk, I didn't do anything wrong!" Marshall protested.

"No, you haven't, thank God," Adrian said, "The world needs more people like you around who can fight evil dirt and dust. But as you got to Schmidt's, you saw him pull out and drive off. You called Karen on the set as you followed him. She was filling in for an extra at the exact time you phoned, in complete Union soldier uniform..."

"The boot prints at the crime scene..." Disher snapped his fingers from back in the crowd.

"...and she told you to keep an eye on him and would intercept his car," Adrian continued, "As it was he was driving right toward the section of town she was in, and so it was easy for her to catch up with Schmidt. You pulled off when her car appeared; you figured everything was going to go smoothly once she caught up with him. Neither of you suspected Hallett was waiting for Schmidt in that warehouse. You followed him in, didn't you Karen? And you called out to him just as he was entering the main chamber. Schmidt turned to face you at the exact second Hallett fired, so that his ice bullets missed the direct hit he'd hoped for. And you watched as Schmidt charged Hallett in a blind rage and grappled with him, and Hallett shot him. Did you say anything to Schmidt as he stumbled back out, like where to find me?"

"I said, 'Monk, 1443 Pine,'" Karen sobbed, "It was the least I could do, having seen..."

She was unable to finish. "Why didn't you tell me any of this, baby?" Marshall stared at her quizzically.

"She couldn't when Hallett had seen her watching," Adrian informed him and everyone else, "He wasn't going to let anyone stand in his way, not when he'd gone so far to get his dear Marilyn all for himself. So for the benefit of all of us, Karen, what did he say to you? What was the price of your silence?"

"He had..." Karen let out a loud burst of grief, "...he had photos of the Altamont Rally from 1978. I was there."

"Where the anti-gun protesters attacked all the cops," Disher knew of it, "Two of them later died."

"I didn't hurt anyone," Karen continued, "but Hallett got the negatives of me there; he threatened to doctor them to make it look like I had killed someone if I spoke up out what I'd seen him do. He would have distributed it to every film studio on the West Coast; I'd never have worked again! Plus he'd been looking through the computer files like Schmidt had; he knew where the boys went to school. He threatened to run them down in the street too if I didn't keep quiet. So when I got back to the set, I told the crew that it would be best for the film if they said I'd been there the whole time, or Schmidt was going to shut it down. Believe me, Monk, keeping silent has been the hardest thing I ever...!"

Unable to continue, she slumped to the floor and sobbed harder. "I understand that, Karen," Adrian stepped toward her, "But Hallett killed again because you decided not to turn him in. You realize that these gentlemen," he gestured at the uniformed officers behind him, "are going to have to consider that withholding evidence, and that carries a heavy price."

"And now that we've established you lied to us about that," Lawton stepped forward into the house, "let's see what else you made up. Did your ex-husband Leland Stottlemeyer threaten to kill you when he was here last night?"

Looking guiltier than ever, Karen shook her head hard. "Did he threaten to harm you in any way at all?" the internal affairs chief pressed.

"Things...things got out of hand," she whispered with another shake of her head, "I look at myself and I didn't know I was capable of..."

"You what...?" Marshall stared at her with an expression that was a cross between shock and betrayal, "You MADE IT UP!? You made up the whole abuse thing from...you mean...he's never once threatened to hurt you like you told me the first time I met you!?"

"Leland never abused me, not once, not ever," she confessed with another burst of grief, "I'm sorry James, I shouldn't have said..." Glancing at Adrian, she whimpered, "I'm sorry I dragged you into it, Monk, I just...just lost control last night. When they let Leland out, tell him I'm...I'm...I'm sorry."

There was the sound of a car door opening from the driveway. "He won't have to," Stottlemeyer came striding up to the doorway, "I was already bailed out an hour ago."

"I got the call and came back," Linda appeared behind him. The realtor pointed an accusing finger in Karen's face. "You're very lucky you have kids," she snarled at her, "Because otherwise I'd give you a piece of my mind for stooping that low to get back at Leland, you son of a...!"

There came the blare of a truck horn from the street that covered up the end of her sentence. "Now, you were saying something a minute ago?" Stottlemeyer inquired to his ex with raised eyebrows.

"I'm sorry, Leland," she was unable to meet his gaze. It was the first time Adrian had ever heard her apologize to the captain for anything.

"You MADE IT UP!?" Marshall was still in shock.

"In the meantime, I'm afraid you're going to have to come with us, Mrs. Stottlemeyer," Lawton drew his handcuffs, "You're hereby charged with one count of withholding evidence, three felony counts of making false statements, and two felony counts of malicious intent. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be..."

"It's OK, Rick," Stottlmeyer unexpectedly stepped between the internal affairs officer and Karen, "I'm not pressing charges, and I think this time it would be best if you didn't either."

"What!?" Lawton's jaw dropped.

"I was out of line last night too," the captain admitted, "The two of us are even."

"Leland, she deliberately lied to send you up the river!" Lawton said incredulously, "Your word is the only thing that can convict her; if you don't push anything...!"

"I said," Stottlemeyer leaned toward him, "I'm not pressing charges against her. Don't you understand plain English?"

"Sure, sure, I understand," Lawton mumbled. He turned back to Karen and added, "But despite this, I'll still expect you in court to tell everything you know, or else there'll still be charges from the state filed."

"I'll tell the court everything," she nodded, "Anything to keep that monster Hallett behind bars."

"Well then, our work here is done, I guess," Lawton looked disappointed that he wasn't going to be taking anyone down. The officers slowly filed away from the house. "Leland, I...I..." Karen was at a loss for words at the sudden turn of events.

"Don't say anything," he told her, "Like I said, we're even now. So what made you change your mind about everything?"

"The boys haven't spoken to me since last night," she admitted, "Max threw his skateboard at me in contempt this morning; that was the big turning point. Being hated by your own children, that's a punishment worse than jail, believe me!"

"I can believe that," Stottlemeyer's face contorted with pain at the thought of past instances of this happening to him.

"You MADE IT UP!?" Marshall was still staring at Karen in shock.

"I want you to do something for me, Jimmy," Stottlemeyer put an arm around the shoulder of the man he'd so recently chewed out, "I want you to forgive her too. Because Monk tells me you love her very much, and it would be a mistake to let a damn good woman like her slip away, trust me on that."

Marshall stared back and forth between both Stottlemeyers. Then with a reassuring smile, he extended a silent hand to Karen, who sniffed in delight at the reprieve and embraced her new love. "You won't regret it, Jimmy," the captain told him, "Monk, let's leave these two make up with each other."

"Before you go, Leland," Karen turned toward him, "First thing on Monday, I'm...I've decided to call Judge Lawrence and tell him some...sections of his decisions need...reevaluating."

"Really?" the captain didn't say anything else, but Adrian knew what had happened: his boss had just earned himself more custody rights.

"Really," his ex told him, breaking into a smile that clearly telegraphed that even though her relationship with him was still finished, she intended not to burn any more bridges with him, "Have a good day, Leland."

It was Stottlemeyer's turn to sniff in happiness. "Did you all hear that?" he asked everyone around him as the front door closed.

"I did," Adrian smiled at his boss, "You did the right thing, Captain."

"Yes, you did, sir," Disher gave his superior a look of deep respect.

"And I hope in the meantime," Linda fixed Stottlemeyer with raised eyebrows, "That you've learned a good lesson on revenge, Leland, because next time I might not be able to bail you out to make apologies."

"I have," he told her, running a hand through her hair, "I'm not going to lose another one. Not when you're great yourself."

"And I'm sorry too while, while we're at it, Linda," Adrian told the realtor, "I wasn't able to keep..."

"You didn't break that promise, Monk," she reassured him, "On the contrary, I think you did just fine. I think your wife would be proud. Very proud."

Adrian glanced skyward. "Yeah, Trudy's very proud," Natalie agreed, putting a hand on his shoulder, "If it weren't for you, none of this would have happened. The good stuff, I mean. Well, I guess now everything's over and done with now, right?"

"The case is," Adrian told her, "But there's still something I'd like to do tonight, if you'd would like to help out."

* * *

That evening, Adrian gave Ambrose's door a good knocking. Ambrose's face registered with surprise when he opened it. "Well, Adrian, what...what a surprise," he exclaimed, "Hello there," he greeted Julie behind them, "So nice of you to drop in too."

"It's a pleasure," she informed him, hefting several bags into his hand, "Mr. Monk's got something for you."

Ambrose opened the bags. Inside them were ten carefully wrapped mugs exactly like the ones he already had with number threes labeled on them. "Just thought that you'd be cut up by losing Number Three," Adrian admitted to his brother, "I, I got backups just in case it breaks again; should probably have gotten backups for the rest, but Natalie said she'd kill me if I bought that many."

"Well, thanks," Ambrose seemed quite pleased to be getting these gifts, "I'll, I'll go put one of them away."

"We also brought the newspaper back," Natalie handed it to the instruction manual writer, who set about smoothing the edges out even though it didn't look the least bit wrinkled, "Thank you for all your help, it came in handy in solving the case."

"Glad it did," Ambrose said in relief, "How'd it go?"

"Wonderful," Adrian tapped the papers lying on the top of the nearest filing cabinet until they were perfectly lined up, "We got the guy, and the captain's not at odds with Karen anymore. I wish you could have been there to see it all."

"So do I, so do I," Ambrose lamented glumly, "So, what brings the two of you here?"

"Well, they happen to be profiling Trudy's case on tonight's Crimestoppers show," his brother told him, "And I figured that since the two of us have an equal interest in this case, we'd watch it together. And because of that, I...I think it would be best that if any...any crucial clue comes up, you should get to phone it in, Ambrose. After all, it's not like you deserve to be shut out of the process."

"You mean it?" Ambrose's expression leaped, "You'll...you'll really let me...?"

"Just for tonight," Adrian added firmly, "I, I still need to fulfill my commitment to this as well."

"Well then," Ambrose glanced at the clock, "Since it's five minutes to air, I might as well go put this paper away and get us set up for the show. In the meantime, go make yourself at home...well, not completely, but you get my idea."

While everyone wandered into the living room, the instruction manual writer wandered into the den and reinserted the newspaper into its appropriate stack. As he turned to go in with the others, he noticed Julie plugging her laptop into the wall. "Not too long on it," he advised her, "I have a very specific budget for electrical use each month that I can't afford to go over on. So you're sending him the info on this latest case, am I right?"

"We have an agreement," Julie clicked on the Hotmail icon on the front screen, clicked Send once the Hotmail screen had popped up, and clicked on the top e-mail address on the quick list, which happened to be BenFlem11, "I let him know everything once it's all over with-or at least everything Mom's willing to tell me about what goes on. Since we agree this series is going to be hot, he needs to be able to have enough script treatments to last a while."

"I see," Ambrose watched her type in MR. MONK AND THE UNPOPULAR BANKER in the Re line, "Well, that's good, knowing my brother's the big star of a major...what I'm saying is..."

"Hey, don't worry about it," she gave him a sympathetic look, "They're going to get to you on this show in time. And people are going to like you a lot, trust me. You're the type of person that people can sympathize with."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far..." Ambrose started to say.

"Let me put it this way," Julie rose up and took his hand, "When it comes to the heroes in my life, my dad and Mr. Monk run one-two. You're number three."

Ambrose cracked a smile at this. "She's right, Ambrose," Adrian had been listening in, "I'd, I'd rank you pretty high, too. I know Trudy does, too, somewhere up there. What do you say we go find some peace for her?"

Ambrose nodded firmly, looking better than he had in a long while. He followed his brother into the den, flashing another smile at Natalie as he passed her. Adrian gestured for him to sit in the armchair closest to the phone and took his seat in the one exactly opposite it as his father-in-law appeared on the screen again and announced, "Good evening, I'm Dwight Ellison. Since Crimestoppers U.S.A. has come on the air, we've helped bring closure to many victims of crime. Tonight, I'm asking you to help bring closure for me on a very personal case..."

THE END


End file.
